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Chapter Two

Only three days after Panjor left, I was idle and irritated.

It had been a while since my mentor last left on one of his journeys, and I'd forgotten how quickly frustrated and bored I became without him getting frustrated and bored with me. Despite his nagging, teasing and twenty-four-hours-a-day correcting, I enjoyed his company regardless; especially now I'd attained that age and level when I could start nagging and teasing back at him.

I didn't know how I was going to survive the next few days with only my brothers for company.

Now don't get me wrong. My brothers Lokir and Ulfgar (named after the revered hero Ulfgar the Unending, so my mother tells me) are good brothers, but we don't spend a lot of time together, because we're more different than you can possibly imagine. Lokir and Ulfgar like to face life together. Rarely have I seen one without the other, whether they're joking, playing around, arguing with one another whose turn it was to weed the garden or looking after the goats. I liked getting things done promptly, being alone, and hunting. I think our meagre livestock barely knew I existed. I killed wild goats and skinned them, so it never felt right to be near our farm goats when the blood of their brethren was on my hands.

To add to my irritation, my brothers were becoming irritated. Why they were was because it was now halfway through Heartfire and therefore time for the annual harvest of Rorikstead, when all the wheat fields were golden and ready to be gathered in, in preparation for the upcoming winter. Because Rorikstead isn't the largest community, everyone has to pitch in and help, including me, the hunter of the community, which I always considered pretty stupid. The best thing I can do to help them is hunt, not scythe away the wheat. The guards, for example, don't help with the harvest. They guard. So why not let me hunt?

But I didn't argue, unlike my brothers. They would have protested, if they were the hunters for the family. Resigned, I decided to get my share of the harvest out of the way as quickly as possible so I could get out into the wilderness again as soon as possible.

Presently, I completely regretted this decision. It was now two days into the harvest. I hadn't done any hunting since Panjor left. Most of the day that was between Panjor's leave and the start of the Heartfire harvest was spent resting and sharpening my arrows, and keeping my two brothers out of trouble while my father went to help our neighbours out with a troublesome plough.

Now I was positively itching with the need to hunt.

Bitterly I imagined what I could be doing, if not for the infamous harvest. I could be out in the middle of the Whiterun prairie, following the trail of a young elk or doe, or a lost fawn; creeping through heather budding with wildflowers, and jumping small streams that bubbled with refreshing clear water. My quiver and bow would be slung over one shoulder. I would find and kill the quarries, and I'd have an array of gleaming pelts and antlers to show Panjor when he returned. He'd be proud and teach me how to set bear traps.

No, none of that was happening. Instead, I was standing in the middle of our vegetable garden, digging up carrots with a hoe.

My hands ached from the endless ploughing, of lifting the hoe and plunging it into the dirt. Each time I unearthed a carrot, I pulled it out into the air, dusted the muck off the best I could, and tossed it to one side. Throughout this, I was feeling a little stupid.

Oh, if Panjor could see me now, I thought ruefully, pausing in my work a moment to rub my sore hands and blistered fingers together, cursing the stupid hoe. My hands would be too sore to use the bow tomorrow. I'd just die of humiliation.

I wiped a strand of russet hair from my face and picked up the tool again. I wasn't the only one toiling hard. The whole town was working their fingers to the bone. Lokir and Ulfgar had the tougher jobs of cutting the corn with the young man Lemkil who lived next door. Personally, I didn't like Lemkil very much; he was snobbish, and often rude, mainly because it was his sole responsibility to run the family farm, and he tended to wear out all the gentlemanly courtesy that ever existed in him. But he was a hard worker, and when you could cope with his unhidden surliness, you got a job done twice as fast with him around.

At least, I consoled myself, our family's plot of fertile land overlooked Whiterun Hold. Our farm faced east, towards the edge of town and distant Whiterun, which I couldn't see, but I could imagine. Mother had told me that Whiterun was a massive place, much bigger in size and population than our own humble little hamlet. There were several farms surrounding Whiterun, which was built on a hill so large one could almost consider it a mountain. The biggest building was the mighty Dragonsreach, a palace so enormous it could be seen for miles. In the centre of the city, Father once explained, was a big tree called the Gildergreen, which was held dear to the city; for bearing fruits and beautiful leaves, but mainly for the Divine, Kynareth whispering through its branches in the winds She brought to the Hold. Pilgrims constantly made the journey just to see the Gildergreen.

Our farm also overlooked the winding road. On clear days, I could see very far along it, right to the part when it wound around a small rise and disappeared from view. The whitish cobblestone was distinct near the vegetable patch, which was right beside the road into Rorikstead, but I'd never seen many on the path. Some were simple travellers, heading for Solitude, or Markarth in the west. More than once, we'd had small patrols of Legionnaires pass through on their way north. But travellers were few and far between, and we hadn't had any new visitors to our town for some time.

So imagine my surprise when, quite suddenly, riders appeared on the road.

I was curious, and I stopped working and straightened, peering into the fall sunshine to observe the riders more clearly.

They rode on big horses, one bay, one palomino and one black. There were three of them, one to each horse, riding purposefully side-by-side at a steady, trotting pace. In the glare of the late-afternoon sun I couldn't see them in detail, but as they came closer I knew at once that they were no ordinary travellers. These strangers were warriors. They all wore gleaming metal armour and bore large weapons, hung at their hips or strapped over their shoulders. One of them had a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over his back.

Excitement made me drop the hoe and dash to the fence, leaning over it in my eagerness to see these newcomers clearly. The other townsfolk of Rorikstead were hearing hooves clopping against the road and were emerging to have a better look at who was entering their own remote town, so far from any other civilization. At the sight of the warriors, they muttered and hissed among themselves in great excitement.

They drew near. I looked closely at the leading rider's face. He was hard and weathered, with a big scar cutting across one cheek. He had greyish lips and slick red hair. His eyes were a piercing dark blue, and unusually bright. He wore strange armour, tan-coloured, with a small carving of a wolf's head jutting out from the collar. Soft grey fur lined his throat, cuffs, at the rim of his boots and the base of his cuirass. It was unusual raiment, one I'd never seen before. He carried the bow and arrows.

Presently he noticed me and reined in his horse beside the fence. Nervously I leaned back and considered extending my retreat, when the rider said in a gruff voice, "Greetings, girl. What is your name?"

I was almost too startled to think. "Um...you first."

One of the riders behind the first suddenly gave a bark of laughter, and my eyes darted to him. He was a young well-made fellow, clad in pale grey steel with brown fur around the edges. His face was lined, a black streak of war paint adorned one cheek, and one eye was milky and white. "She has spirit!" he declared. His dark mount sidled closer to the fence, its intention a clump of lush Whiterun grass.

"Or impertinence," said the gruff-voiced male, who seemed to be their leader. But he smiled. "Very well, if you insist. My name is Leiknir Silver-Bane, Harbinger of the Companions."

Shock clouded my senses. I'd heard of the Companions through Father's stories of Whiterun. They were the legendary band of warriors who resided in the mead hall Jorrvaskr, which crouched in the shadow of the Skyforge; the ancient forge which the city was built up around, where the finest steel in all Tamriel was crafted. The Harbinger was a figure respected sincerely by all throughout Skyrim, the closest thing to a leader of the Companions.

Obviously my amazement showed through. Leiknir chuckled and inquired, "So, you've heard of us then, farm girl?"

My disbelief disappeared, to be replaced with a flush of irritation. "I'm not a farm girl," I told the Harbinger. "I'm a huntress."

"A huntress, are you? Can you shoot?"

I stared in growing indignance. He doubted my word. I forced myself to sound as polite as I could manage as I answered, "I've been learning to hunt for ten years, and have made many kills. I've used a bow for all that time."

Then I realized myself as to how Leiknir and the others were probably seeing me; standing ankle-deep in ploughed earth, covered in filth, wearing soiled farmer's clothing, hair straddled around my dirty, sweaty face, my hands aching and sore from the hoe. No wonder they didn't see me a huntress, I thought with a squirm of embarrassment. Why couldn't I have actually been huntingwhen I met these mercenaries?

"But in the times I don't hunt, I work with my family to provide crops for the store," I continued, desperate to explain myself. "This is the Heartfire harvest for Rorikstead, so I'm needed in the fields more than I am hunting for meat for the fires."

"I suppose that is good a reason as any," conceded the third rider. He was a man certainly many years older than the Companion who rode the black horse. This one had bright dark silver, almost black hair twisted back behind his head. He had a sort of spiral war paint on his right cheek, and a beard beginning to grow around his chin. His eyes were bright grey. His face, however, was barely lined, and faintly scarred from old battles. He wore the same armour as his Harbinger.

"And how goes the harvest?" asked the rider of the black horse—the young man who'd enjoyed my spirit.

"Well," I replied levelly, "but there remains much to do. Hopefully we'll have enough to last us through the winter. But the fields' wealth is great, and my father's a fantastic...um...vegetable-grower, so I think we should be sound."

I admit to another surge of embarrassment; who was I to bore these battle-hardened warriors with the story of a harvest? These men must fight every day of their lives, and here I was, digging up carrots.

"May I have the privilege of getting better acquainted with your Companions?" I asked of the Harbinger, a hint of my old spirit returning.

Leiknir gestured. "They're my personal escorts," he replied. "I have been called for council in Solitude from High King Torygg. I'll let them introduce themselves for me."

The one-eyed man on the black horse nodded shortly. "I'm Skjor," he said. "I'm just a beginner with the Companions. I've been with them for a few years, but to them, I'm still new blood. But the Harbinger trusts me enough to accompany him on his journey." He seemed proud. He sounded as if he'd only have just entered his late-twenties, several years beyond late adolescence, but I guessed that he was about eight or nine years older than I was.

"And you'll keep being a whelp to our eyes till you make it to the Circle," said the third rider, the handsome young silver-black-haired man with the spiral warpaint. He turned and smiled at me through his beard. "Call me Kodlak. I'm a member of the Circle, a senior member of the Companions."

His eyes, I noticed then, were just as unusually bright and dark as Leiknir's. His face was sharply outlined, as though he had been hungry for a long time. I carefully measured his unusual appearance before turning back to Leiknir.

"What business do you have here in our humble town of Rorikstead, Harbinger?" I asked as respectfully as I could.

"It is too late for further travel today," said Leiknir, "so we have decided to stop in Rorikstead until morning. Do you have an inn where we could rest for the night?"

"Um...sure. The Frostfruit Inn usually has plenty of spare beds." Mralki, an ex-Legion soldier who'd fought in the recently-ended Great War, had only just opened up the inn. There never was a lot of business, but there was enough to keep the coin dripping in. He'll be overjoyed and positively alarmed when the Harbinger walks in and asks for a drink and three rooms, I thought, pointing the place out to them.

In fact, most of the townsfolk were positively alarmed and overjoyed that the revered Companions had come to visit their little stead. Everywhere, people were approaching to pay their respects to Leiknir, wishing him endlessly safe travels and a pleasant stay. It took some time before they even managed to reach the inn, not too far from my own house.

I stared after the Companions in a mixture of jealousy and awe. They got to go and see the world whenever they wished. They experienced all kinds of monsters that I'd only heard about in fireside stories and legends, for a living. They journeyed throughout Skyrim to clear out beast nests and bandit camps, their importance and renown so great that the High King himself was seeking the Harbinger's advice on important matters in a council. I'd never strayed farther than two miles from Rorikstead before.

And as well as that, I was embarrassed. I could have at least had my bow and my arrows on me when the Harbinger first saw me. I could have looked like a huntress, not a simple farmhand. I self-consciously brushed back my hair and rubbed at the dirt that had gathered there, and then decided right there and then that I would clean myself up, first of all, and then go hunting; Mother and Father were probably too preoccupied with the Companions' arrival to notice if I slipped away for a few hours. I glanced at my blistered fingers. They ached. To hell with my sore hands; I just needed a break from the damn hoe. If the Companions were going to stay the night, then I could at least provide Mralki with some fresh meat for the fires.

I headed inside, changed into clean garments, brushed my hair out, slung the quiver of arrows over my shoulder and the bow over that. I put on my hunting boots, made of real moccasin, and headed out. By then, most of the town had calmed down enough to resume their chores. My brothers, I noticed, were helping one of the Companions—Kodlak, I think—gear down and clean the three horses. Their backs were turned to me and they seemed completely absorbed in their task, even though the only other hooved animals they had been around their entire lives were the goats in our pen behind the house. They weren't stableboys; as I watched, Lokir dropped a brush onto his foot.

Leiknir, the Harbinger, was nowhere to be seen. Must be inside, I figured, renting rooms from Mralki.

So I turned away, yet as I was leaving Rorikstead, a voice sounded behind me. "Where are you off to, huntress?"

I glanced back. The youngest Companion—Skjor—was just behind me.

"Where do you think?" I asked, relieved that I'd refreshed myself before the Companion saw me again, and I looked more like I should have appeared. "Hunting."

"Mind if I join you?"

I was so surprised by this question—coming from a real Companion—that for a moment I said nothing. Then I composed myself and answered as haughtily as I could manage, "If you can keep up. And if you're quiet enough."

"Are you testing me now?" Skjor was grinning.

"It's my duty as a huntress to check the noise levels of my companions," I said. I looked dryly at Skjor's armour and added, "I'm guessing that steel isn't the quietest of outfits to wear when one hunts."

"No, I suppose not. But it protects your life better than what you have on." Skjor looked critically at my own light, close-fitting raiment.

"Hunters don't need to have their lives protected," I said to him, accompanying these words with an eye-roll, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "A good huntress never lets herself be discovered." I found myself repeating Panjor's words of wisdom and suddenly, it made me feel quite professional compared to this Companion. Yes, I was young, sixteen summers, still an apprentice, but here I was better than him. I liked that feeling.

Skjor's lightheartedness did not diminish at this. "You have quite a lot of spirit for a youth."

"My mother calls me a she-wolf. You'd best remember that."

"Do you have the temperament of one?"

"Just about."

"Not the fangs?"

"No."

Skjor exhaled in relief. "Oh, that's good. You look as if you were going to bite."

"I just might, if you don't shut up."

Skjor chuckled as he fell into step beside me. "You've quite a lot of nerve, saying that to a Companion," he said, trying to sound stern, and failing. He was grinning too much, utterly amused.

"You asked to join me," I reminded him. "So out here, I'm the boss."

"Right, boss; but I have one more question, if you don't mind."

I granted him his request. "And what's that?"

"What's your name?"

I stared at Skjor again. This Companion, someone who killed bandits, wolves, bears, trolls and all other kinds of fantastical creatures as his occupation, who drank in the mead hall Jorrvaskr almost every single night, had asked for my name. I was just a young lass in Rorikstead. I'd never even seen the Companions before, and part of me was dismayed that I'd been so rude with him, and he hadn't minded. With a small smile I answered, "Aela."

"Aela." Skjor repeated it, and approved. "A good name."

"Did you think I had a terrible name?"

"No, but I wasn't expecting a name quite like Aela." He wasn't kidding.

We moved up the hill away from Rorikstead, in near silence. Skjor only commented once or twice how nice Whiterun Hold looked in the evening sunshine. Then, after a while, I said, "If you don't mind my asking, what are you going to Solitude for?"

"I thought you knew; Leiknir's been summoned by the High King."

"Yes, but for what?"

Skjor shrugged. His armour rattled. "Who knows? They wouldn't tell me much. I'm just a Shield-Brother to Kodlak, really. He's more or less my mentor."

"You're prenticed to Kodlak?"

"Yeah. Old man's been teaching me all he knows about swordplay." Skjor flashed me a small, embarrassed smile. "Well, he's not that old. I mean, he's only mid-aged and all, but he's got all the experience of one who's much, much older. Been teaching me all he knows about swords since I first signed up with the Companions, and I've learned a hell of a lot. He's been with the Companions for a good two decades now and still going strong. He and Leiknir are good friends."

"I'm still prenticed myself," I remarked, "to an experienced hunter. He's away on business at the moment; you won't see him." I stiffened and crouched in the grass, and carefully brushing aside a stray blade I discerned the soft, inconspicuous track of an animal. It was very fresh.

"Rabbit," said Skjor.

I glanced up at him. "What?"

"That's a rabbit's footprint," said Skjor.

So it was. "Are you a hunter as well?" I asked as I straightened.

"I do it for a pastime," said Skjor casually. He smiled at my surprised expression.

Mentally I kicked myself.

"And you hunt in that armour of yours?" I asked, trying to regain my composure as we continued through the lush prairie grass.

"No. I change into leather attire when I hunt," replied Skjor. "But I don't hunt very often. I'd like to, but...ah, well. Duty calls. And I'm not going to pass up on a chance to journey with our Harbinger. I mean, wow. What an honour."

"Doesn't Leiknir get out much?"

"No, not really. He stays back in Jorrvaskr. Sometimes, though, he heads out at night. Not sure why. Doesn't return till early morning and then goes straight to bed." Skjor paused for a moment as though remembering, and added, "Always wears old clothes, not his armour, when he heads out. The clothes come back looking pretty tattered."

"Any idea why?"

"I don't know and I don't care. He's our Harbinger. Oh, there's your rabbit."

"What?" I peered in the direction he was pointing. It wasn't until the tiny brown speck on the horizon moved that I actually realized it to be said rabbit. I stared at Skjor in amazement. "How in the Divines did you manage to see it from so far away?"

"I've had keen eyes since I was a boy," replied Skjor. "My Ma used to call me Eagle-Eyes; that is, until I lost one of them. But if anything, the sight in my remaining eye's improved. Anyway, I think I just like Skjor better. And I prefer using a longsword to a longbow. The same can't be said for you, I'm afraid." He smiled at the bow that had been shrugged into my grasp.

"Tell you what," I told him. "If I can hit the rabbit from this far, you can tell me all about the Companions."

"What do you want to know about us?" Skjor asked.

"Um...what Whiterun is like. The Skyforge. Jorrvaskr. Everything about your city." There was a hint of a plea in my voice. "And about the other Holds. I'm desperate to learn more about them but I haven't been able to get out very much. I don't exactly do a lot of travelling."

Skjor smiled. "Deal. And what will I get in return?"

"Ah...the right to keep annoying me?" I offered.

"Sounds good. Can I start now?"

"No."

Perhaps he'd noticed the state of my sore hands. I raised the bow and picked out an arrow. As I fastened it to the string and pulled back, I winced as pain throbbed in my bruised and blistered fingertips. My arms trembled from the strain of holding back the bowstring, worn from the excessive work of using ungainly farmer's tools. My eyes sought out the rabbit, and I aimed as carefully as I could. Beside me, Skjor was as still and silent as stone, even holding his breath, so as not to be even the slightest distraction.

Appreciated, I thought. I honed my attention in on the rabbit, some sixty to seventy yards away, hidden among the grass. The air was still. I raised the bow slightly, and then loosed with a soundless prayer that I'd calculated the distance right. I'd never shot something so small from this distance before. A million to one chances I would miss.

The arrow whistled through the air, gently rising at first, then arcing downwards. It became a speck and disappeared, but both Skjor and I saw the rabbit stiffen, then fall with the faintest rustle of grass.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Skjor, starting to laugh. "You're pretty ace with your bow."

I was astonished. I hadn't actually expected to hit it. But I didn't let my amazement show. I hurried towards the rabbit carcass without giving myself a chance to lose sight of the small brown body, not letting my gaze drift once from where it lay. Skjor followed.

I arrived and discovered that I'd hit the animal, but hadn't killed it. It was thrashing in pain—the arrow had pierced its leg and gut but it wasn't quite dead yet. Quickly I tugged my skinning knife from my belt, pressed lightly down on it shoulder to steady it, and pierced its jugular to end its suffering. It died quickly, with a final twitch of its whiskers. Then I tugged the arrow from its hindquarters and cleaned it on the grass.

I straightened, holding the rabbit by its long hind legs. Skjor caught up. His heavy armour had slowed him, to my satisfaction, compared to my moccasins and light woven clothes coloured the earthy greens and browns of the grasslands. Holding it up triumphantly, I added, "Right. You're to tell me about the Companions. You promised."

"I did, didn't I?" Skjor wasn't disappointed, though. "That all the hunting you'll do today?"

"Maybe."

"I found the track of a fawn just back there," he offered. "I was going to mention it to you but you rushed on ahead like a deer to get your fallen rabbit."

"Too easy to lose in the prairie. Show me the trail." I looked at him with a narrowed expression. "You know, for a Companion, you're awfully witty. I would've thought that you'd have been...more composed, you know. Like your Harbinger."

Skjor flashed me a coy grin, the same that Panjor often used on me. "Ah, only the members of the Circle are allowed to be all high-and-mighty. Whelps and new blood can do what they please, as long as they don't get too drunk in Jorrvaskr and start singing Ragnar the Red in the early hours of the morning and alert the town guards."

"Has that ever happened before?"

"Um...no."

I pretended to drop the subject, and followed Skjor to the fawn trail he uncovered; but I determined to ask Kodlak later on, if I could get a private word with the Companion in the inn.

A/N: It's purely out of my imagination that Lokir and Ulfgar are Aela's brothers. I thought it would be interesting that Lokir the horse-thief who dies in the beginning of the game was actually related to her.