Sorry for my long absence! First, there was no time to continue this story, and then, I kinda forgot about it, oh my... I hope you can forgive my silliness! Have a slightly longer chapter as a compensation and be assure the next one is already being written!

Rather apropos of nothing, Bronwen said, fixing Farkas with that fierce gaze of hers: "Your company is nice. I've been alone much of the time since... since the incident. Ma has to do her own work as well as Fa's, I can't help her as of now and it's not easy for me to get anywhere. I really appreciate you being here."
The sounded so earnest and bold that Farkas didn't know what to respond for a moment. Maelys affectionately ruffled her hair like a child's before she took the tin bowl and went to empty it outside.
"After all your mother has done for me, being pleasant to be around is the least I can do", he finally stated, feeling a bit uneasy. "It's an honour to know you think about me that way."

That made her smile, and her usually so spirited-looking facial expression softened considerately.
"Don't you have friends, though?", he wondered.
She faltered for a moment, but the didn't look regretful as she was searching for the right words. "Not really", she eventually responded. "There's a village nearby, Mjors. It's only a handful of people, though, and most of them older. My parents' age, I mean. There are two children, but they're ten and twelve years old, respectively, so not really what I could be friends with. I'm used to being around adults. Some spoil me a bit, and to be honest, I like it. But I can't say I was ever longing for friends. I was always so content with just Ma and Fa. They have always been my best friends."
Thinking about it, she seemed like a person who was used to being exclusively around adults. Farkas knew that from himself, even though he had always still had Vilkas.
While Bronwen had been speaking, Maelys had returned. She put the bowl on its place again and put the dishes and cutlery away.
"Spoiled you are indeed, young lady", she teased lovingly and once again ruffled Bronwen's hair. The young woman gave her an obedient smile. These two clearly loved each other.

"I'll be out on the field, if you need me", Maelys then said and went outside.
"You're cultivating a field?", Farkas asked, still toying with the folded letter.
"My parents always believed in self-sufficiency", Bronwen explained. "To a degree, at least. Fa went hunting, and Ma worked in the fields. It was always like that."
"I could have sworn your mother is a healer", Farkas wondered.
"Yea, she's also a healer. She doesn't call herself that, but whenever a woman gives birth, or a cow sneezes, or a dog behaves wildly, everyone goes to her for help. There aren't enough people around here to make a living off that, though. So field-work it is. We grow everything we need and then some so we can sell it or trade it for other things we need", she answered.
"Sounds simple enough", he reasoned.
"You look satisfied by that", Bronwen stated, smiling a teasing smile.
He replied: "Simple is good. I don't have a nerve for fanciness, be it of lifestyle or of character, or whatever."
"Judging from my experience, that's a general Nord thing", she said.
"From a Breton's point of view, perhaps", Farkas contradicted. "Were you born in High Rock?"
"No, and neither was Ma. Only Fa is a born Breton, so to speak... or was." Her voice turned hollow with that last statement, but she quickly continued: "Ma came from the Rift originally. She met Fa when he was visiting some relatives there. They fell in love and because crime seemed to be abundant in the Rift back then, they came to Haafingar."
She sighed with a condescending smile that appeared to be addressed to herself, because she said: "I'm sorry. You didn't ask for the family chronicles, I shouldn't be talking that much about it."
"I don't mind", Farkas said quickly. "In Jorrvaskr, I always have company and always listen to someone, so I'm used to it." To be more precise, it kind of soothed him. It was a sweet middle spot between the silence on his journeys, where only the howling of the wind and the odd rustling were talking to him, and the screaming, cracking and clangour of battle.
"That's nice of you", Bronwen said, as if it were his choice. She looked around, seemingly searching for words, then began: "Don't get me wrong... It's really horrible you are wounded like that and in pain... but... it..." She cleared her throat while he looked at her expectantly, clueless as to what might come.
She started anew. "I presume you will be staying for a while."
"If Maelys doesn't kick me out some day, yes", he attested.
"She won't", Bronwen insisted. "You would have to act really vile for her to do that."
"I wouldn't dream of doing so." That would have been a bloody disgrace.
Bronwen just went on, nervously gesticulating: "Look, I just find it nice to have someone to... to heal with. Really, please don't get me wrong, I wish for no one to have to endure that and it was certainly not the reason I hit you with the crutches. It just... it feels nice to know that someone is going through the same struggles."
Well, he hadn't lost a limb and a relative, but he didn't say that. Besides, on the other hand, her wound healing was much more advanced than his. But he got what she was speaking of. He had often been injured in his life, and each time he had, for the other Companions, instantly transformed into an invalid, an object of pity, overprotectiveness, ridicule, and even anger, being told to "not strain yourself" as often as to "man up", and being treated distantly and like a raw egg. The injury had defined him until he had functioned normally again. This was probably Bronwen's first – and hopefully last – major injury, so she couldn't just tune out this kind of behaviour in others. He involuntarily wondered if Maelys always treated her like that. Having someone with the same problem around who was not in the position to treat oneself like some poor wretch with a disadvantage was a relief in a situation like that.
"I understand that", he said. "I'm honoured to stay and heal with you for a while, if it comforts you."
Bronwen seemed less flustered at once. She didn't seem like the type to stay flustered for longer than necessary. "I'm guessing the Companions are named after the company they provide", she said.

"We fight together, we defend each other, we care for each other and we heal together", he confirmed. He didn't add that, at the moment, they just weren't enough that there was a high chance of there being two injured persons at the same time.

"Too bad I'm not a Companion", Bronwen said, grinning.
Farkas chuckled. "You're my companion at the moment", he replied, then asked: "Does that mean you'd like to join us, then?"
She denied, though. "Even leaving out of consideration that I have but an odd number of limbs left, a fighter's life was never what I wished for."
He couldn't say he was surprised. Bronwen and especially Maelys seemed so pacifistic and easy-going. That were admirable qualities, but not those of a fighter.
"Besides", Bronwen went on, "you are sellswords, and I won't become a sellsword for sure."
"We're not", he objected, slightly turning his head away and looking askew at her.
"Then tell me the difference between a Companion and a regular sellsword", she prompted him.
"Between a Companion and a sellsword, period. There's no need for the word 'regular' in that sentence", he replied with just a tad bit too much of an angry vigour. "The difference is easy: A sellsword will do just about anything for money, a Companion has honour. This is our defining trait. We are honourable fighters for hire, not dirty mercenaries who attack merchant caravans in their spare time."
He felt uncomfortably winded after that short rant, and leaned back again, his sore body more tense than he would have liked to admit.
"I hadn't thought you were that touchy about the subject", Bronwen remarked, eyes wide. "I'm sorry. Try not to get too vexed. It's never good, and not at all in your current condition."
She was right. It wasn't good. It wasn't good for his body, it wasn't good for his peace of mind, and it wasn't good for keeping his beast nature asleep. That was why Vilkas, who was more hot-headed than him, regularly struggled against his inner wolf. And he shouldn't get that upset about an ignorant comment from a girl who didn't know better, anyway. It was just that the current state of the Companions – a small handful of fighters willing to do almost as much as a mercenary meeting his clients in a dirty tavern would, who were drunk and disorderly all the time and who were ridiculed by the city watch – really got to him. He loved the concept of the Companions and everything they stood for, he was raised by their rules, their ideals ran through his veins, their origins and history made his heart beat... it was just the reality of it all that was none too worthwhile, and he hated it.
"It's alright", he said, running his hands over his face. "Sorry, I overreacted."
"It's fine", she reassured him. "We all do, sometimes."
Then, changing topics, she asked: "How well can you walk by yourself?"
He didn't want to admit that what with the big gash on his thigh and his rather big blood loss, his mobility was significantly restricted. "Why are you asking?"
"I'd like to show you my room", she explained.
For a silly little moment, Farkas felt skittish about that suggestion, before remembering that she had already told him he could sleep in her bed. She was just going to show him where he was to sleep, there was certainly nothing on her mind that Maelys might not have approved of.
"I can make it up there", he stated confidently. He was sure he could, he was just not sure about his overall condition afterward.
"Fine. Take the toiletries and come with me."

She reached for her crutches and, as soon as she held them, lifted herself in a standing position. Carefully and with both hands pressed against the tabletop, he heaved himself upright.

Reaching Bronwen's room was like a forced march. Bronwen was leading him upstairs in a speed that much resembled a glacier's, which was alright with Farkas, for he, too, dragged himself forward like an arthritic ewe. When they had put the stairs behind themselves, they made a short break. Bronwen obviously didn't need one, and he tried to catch his breath again as quickly as he could to not let her wait.
Her room, thankfully, was behind the first of three doors. Even the short hallway seemed like too much of an effort to him, at the moment. The door creaked softly when Bronwen opened it. The room was small, but not claustrophobic. There was a window just left of them, and next to it, a small bookshelf. On top of the bookshelf was a small statue representing Mara. A bed with neatly straightened out and smoothed blankets on top of cow fur covering a bulk of straw stretched out on the wall just ahead of them.
"Sit down on the bed. I don't have a chair in here", Bronwen invited him, seating herself on the heavy chest on the bed's foot side, where some clothes piled.
His body too uncomfortable and hurting to protest, Farkas did as she had said, eyeing the books.
"Are they novels or nonfiction?", he asked.
"Both. Some are manuals on hunter stuff, like weapons or animal traces, or on gardening and farming, some are history books, and some are novels. Most of those are murder mysteries", she answered.
Just at that moment, a heavy downpour fell from the heavens, creating a dampened drumming noise on the roof and obviously joy in Bronwen, for she sighed, with a pleased smile on her face: "I love the sound of rain."
"You're studious, then?"
"I wouldn't call it that", she replied. "I learned what I needed to know from books and my parents, and whenever life here gets too boring for me, murder mystery it is. It's more escapism than studiosity. Do you like to read?"

"Not really", Farkas admitted with a slight sigh, still not turning his gaze away from the books clad in colourful leather.
"That's too bad. Why not?"
"Nonfiction bores me and novels often seem nonsensical to me. Too much melodrama. Too many implausible turns of events. Reading for entertainment seems like a waste of time, too. I haven't really read a book in so long the other Companions make fun of my and question my ability to read whenever they so much as see me holding a book. Vilkas likes reading, though. I already told you that I'm... less intelligent than my brother. Maybe reading needs smartness."
"Uh-huh", Bronwen sounded.
"What, 'uh-huh'?", he asked, finally turning to her.
Sitting on the chest, she looked even smaller then usual. She didn't seem to mind.
"So the problem is, once again, with the others and not with you", she diagnosed.
He blinked.
"It's not right of them to ridicule you when you try to read."
"If I hadn't just stopped reading, they wouldn't act that way", Farkas responded, not quite sure why he defended them and their behaviour.
"If they hadn't said 'Look at that guy, so much less intelligent than his alike-looking brother even though he's holding a book; maybe he can't read or is just plain stupid?' whenever they saw you reading, you probably wouldn't have stopped reading", Bronwen insisted.
He sighed once more. "You're a demanding dialogue partner, you know that?"
"So they say." She sounded a lot less staunch and also more quiet than before.

There was a moment of awkward silence and Farkas wondered if he had hurt her by calling her demanding. He could imagine full well that she didn't get along with people of the same age precisely because she was used to spending much time around adults, and emotionally open and wise adults like her mother at that. An already sweet, red apple on a tree looked strange if all other apples of the same size and age and on the same tree were still green and sour, after all, and probably even stirred up envy among them. With the unusual worldview her mother had taught her, even other adults might find her openly stated opinions and analyses arduous or even just pretentious.
"I'm sorry, I'm just not used to this kind of conversation", he gawkishly tried to soothe her.

"Thought so. The Companions don't seem like epitomes of politeness."
"Certainly not. We respect each other, but we don't give too much about the others' feelings, much less do we talk about them."
"Ma says that this is the foremost reason why men die earlier than women."
"I would have reckoned it had something to do with men's lust for battle."
"Maybe", Bronwen acknowledged. "Maybe both. Maybe men have the urge to battle because they don't talk about their feelings enough."
"Dunno. The women at Jorrvaskr don't talk about their feelings a lot, as well. I don't think it has anything to do with gender."

"Not talking about feeling, or list for battle?"
Farkas thought about this for a moment, before eventually answering: "Both."
"For someone not used to this kind of conversation, you're exhibiting some quite remarkable arguments", she complimented him, which made him a bit self-conscious.
Just that he wasn't used to those dialogues didn't mean he didn't enjoy this one. It actually surprised him a bit. Because of his reputation and maybe also because of the combination of his size, muscles and tendency to keep silent, most people didn't bother to involve him into a deep, thoughtful conversation. Kodlak certainly did from time to time, but Kodlak had known him since he had been a boy. Bronwen here didn't seem to think much of just talking to him in that way. It was most likely just the way she was. Again, he could see why most people her age and even older than her would find her way of conversing overwhelming.
"And what of it?", he asked.
"It means you think a lot about things. It means you can easily adapt to a situation you're not used to." Bronwen grinned. "It means you're not an idiot."
He sighed, letting it slide, carefully fingering the bandage around his neck. The rain's monotonous sounds made him kind of sleepy.
Bronwen seemed to be content with this topic's denouement, and said: "When I'm not reading, I try to mend our clothes and linens or to spin yarn – with which I will later mend. It's very drab and I'm not really good at neither."
"I have never spun, but I'm bad at mending clothes, too", Farkas replied.
"So you mend you own clothing?", she asked with a soft chuckle.
"Of course", he said. "Tilma can't do all of that. She already mends all the textiles in Jorrvaskr, and some of the harder to repair articles of clothing of ours. But most of my clothes, I mend myself if need be."
"That's a quality I could admire in a man", Bronwen said with a laugh, leaving it unclear if she meant it literally or ironically.
She heaved herself upright again.
"I'll look how Ma is doing. You can stay here, or come downstairs again."

Farkas, not keen on getting up again, watched her depart, her crutches' thuds mingling with the sound of the rain on the roof. Then he gave the books on her shelf another sideglance before picking one up.