At the age of eight-and-ten Argis was the youngest warrior in Markarth's history to receive training as a housecarl, or húskarl, as was the proper Nord term. There is a significant difference between a good fighter and a housecarl, who fights not only for himself, but for a Thane or another person of importance, whom he is sworn to serve and protect. That is why usually only experienced warriors are chosen to have the honour, but Ulfric must have pulled a few strings with the Jarl and Argis was allowed to participate.
In theory, anybody could become a housecarl. If two persons agreed that one would safeguard the other, that person became a housecarl in name.
True húskarla however underwent an education that consisted of far more than just weapons training. Argis also learned how to ride a horse, he studied the letters, how to read and write them and he attended lessons in history, geography and strategy. The main focus of his training however, was how to guard and defend a person and the acceptance of the fact that one day he might have to lay down his own life in order to save another.
Argis had joined Ulfric's army to protect his family, but his brothers had followed him and he had lost them both, though in different ways. If he could not even keep his family from harm, what good would he be as a housecarl? These doubts nagged on Argis' mind when he lay awake at night, tired, yet too agitated to fall asleep. In the darkness of the barracks he swore that this time he would make it right.
Not long after Argis had signed up for special training, Hákan had left with Carsten for Windhelm, where he was to receive his own training. Farewell was harder than it should have been, considering they had known each other a scant few months. It was a consolation that when Argis learned to write he could send letters now and then. Letters, which were answered, usually by a professional scribe, though Hákan signed them, his name probably being the only thing he could write.
In a city that was still mostly foreign to him and with his friend gone Argis threw himself into training with a single-mindedness that led to him being one of the most renowned warriors of Markarth within two year's time.
Fate dealt him a heavy blow when during a foray against the Forsworn, who had grown bold enough to attack some outlying farms, Argis was injured by a barbed javelin. The wound was grievous, but his comrades got him back to Markarth and its healers in time, otherwise he might not have made it. Argis survived and in time he healed, but due to being bedridden for a long time he was rendered unable to continue his training as a housecarl and dropped out, weakened in body and in spirit.
He did not give up, however, telling himself that it was just a setback, a minor inconvenience. Thus Argis hung on, grit his teeth and swore to regain his former shape. A feat that most deemed unlikely and in the end Argis was proud to prove them wrong, though it took him another two years to recover fully.
He learned an essential lesson during those years: the importance of the stubborn will to carry on. Jarl Igmund was so impressed by his warrior's dedication that he decided to allow him to begin housecarl training anew.
The training was rigorous, lasting six years and less than one fourth of the trainees saw it through to the end. Most dropped out of their own volition when they could no longer stand the strain, though this time they had a special reason to continue. The Jarl's own housecarl was getting too old to see to his duties and although normally the position was for a lifetime, it was possible to release the housecarl honourably from his services, especially if he had served faithfully for as long as Karsten had. Karsten had been Jarl Hrolfdir's housecarl, but was assigned to the Jarl's son, Igmund, when the boy had come of age. He had saved the future Jarl's life by getting him out of Markarth, even though the Forsworn were almost at the city's doorstep. Old age spared none though and within a few years Jarl Igmund and Karsten would have to choose Karsten's successor. The chances were high it would be somebody from the group of thirty trainees of which Argis was a part of.
Húskarl to the Jarl was the highest position a simple soldier could reach, unless he would be to do something truly remarkable and be rewarded the title of Thane.
Halfway through Argis' training an old friend of his put in an appearance.
After seven years Argis barely recognized the man that strode into the practice grounds one afternoon. Time had changed Hákan. He had been lanky, too thin to be healthy, but hard work and proper food had filled him out. Now he stood half a head over Argis, which made him tower head and shoulders over most everybody else and he had the breadth of shoulders to match his height. His light blonde hair had a multitude of carefully woven braids and he had grown a short, neat beard, not unlike Argis himself.
Some things remained unchanged, though. There was the same broad smile on his face and the same joy shone in his eyes, coupled with a mischievous glint. Hákan's hug nearly lifted Argis off his feet and it might have cracked a few ribs in the process, but Argis laughed it off, pounding on his friend's back, delighted that they would meet again.
Later, Argis took Hákan drinking and they talked through the night, getting reacquainted and the words flowed easily between them, despite the fact that they were practically strangers. It turned out Hákan had decided to return to Markarth for good, leaving the services of the army of Eastmarch, something he could only afford to do because a certain grumpy lieutenant had adopted him. He had missed the city of his birth and wanted to join the soldiers. Argis invited Hákan to stay with him, for he owned a small home close to the soldier's quarters. The reimbursement for his services in the battle for Markarth had been very generous and he had hardly any expenses at all with his training being funded. So Hákan moved in and Argis' home became a bit cramped, though a lot more comfortable. He never moved out again.
They did not become intimate, not for some time, until a drunken night that led to them jouncing a bed in the back of one of the barracks. Next day Argis' memories of what had occurred had been hazy, but he remembered that while some soldiers shoot him nasty glares, others grinned and gave him the thumbs up. Hákan was not Argis' first lover, but he was the first one the Nord was in love with and the two of them had been together ever since.
Hákan liked to drink, to fight and to fuck and in Argis he had found someone with whom he could engage in all three activities.
xxxx
Of the thirty trainees five completed their education. Argis did not only pass the final tests, he exceeded at them. Over the years he had become somewhat of a celebrity and the name 'Argis the Bulwark' was famous throughout the hold of the Reach. When the festivities for the election of the Jarl's new húskarl began, the entire city of Markarth was in an uproar. People did not only enjoy the celebrations, they also cheered on their favourite competitors and took bets on who would be the Jarl's choice.
Only the Proving remained, a custom that served tradition far more than any purpose. The housecarls would take a few chosen soldiers and lead them against the Jarl's enemies. Their targets had already been picked out. Two bandit camps, a band of robbers, the lair of a bear that had caused some trouble by killing livestock and a small group of Forsworn. The Jarl's scouts had located and observed them and the procedure was mainly to entertain the masses. The victors would return to Markarth, parade through the streets, offer Jarl Igmund his services and he would finally be able to name one of them his húskarl. Both Igmund and Karsten had no doubt who would have the honour.
All trainees were capable, but only one was outstanding.
The person in question was altogether glad to be able to escape the fuss and spend a beautiful summer day outside Markarth's walls, enjoying the peace and quiet of the parks surrounding the city. It was hard to believe that once a battle had raged in this valley. After the Forsworn Uprising Markarth had prospered, and the Jarl had ordered the green area built as a sign of the city's wealth, because there was no space inside the city of stone for that sort of thing. Mostly the park consisted of a hedge, lots of grass, some trees and a few flowerbeds. And what must have been the least comfortable stone benches in all of Tamriel.
None of that mattered to Hákan, who was lying stretched out on his back, while Argis used his lover as a backrest, whilst eating his lunch that he had brought with him. From time to time Hákan nicked some food from Argis. He was risking a fist to the face, the Divines knew Argis guarded his meals more closely than a starving wolf, but what fun was the game without a little risk?
Argis finished eating, brushed off the crumbs and tackled Hákan, starting a wrestling match that had them laughing and swearing at each other. It was all in good fun and Hákan let it go on for a while before he put his greater weight and strength to use, pinning his lover to the ground. Argis huffed in mock annoyance, but there was no force behind it. He had started their tussle after all and he knew well that when it came to unarmed combat, be it brawling or wrestling, he did not stand a chance against Hákan. No one did.
Hákan grinned down at his captive, before leaning down and kissing Argis languidly, who responded with a happy hum when the full, warm weight of his lover settled over him. He let their kiss deepen, his hands trailing down Hákan's chest, its plains hard and defined even through the soft fabric of the shirt, to Hákan's hips and beyond, kneading the muscles suggestively and eliciting a groan from the man above him. Then, without a warning Argis dug his fingers in the bigger man's sides.
Hákan was off him in the blink of an eye, casting Argis a wounded look. "That's not very nice." He wagged his finger at Argis' face, adding "Tickling's not fair."
Argis could see the physical effect their closeness had on his lover, but if he allowed it to continue, they'd end up rutting in the park like two animals in heat. Not exactly appropriate behaviour for a man in the position he was aiming at. So he tried to slow his breathing and not show how very affected he was himself, taking his time to stretch out in the grass and to grin up at Hákan, though his smile did not stay long before it faded slowly, leaving behind a frown as Argis continued staring up into the endless blue of the sky.
Hákan had been dealing with Argis' mood for the past days, trying to cheer him up by distracting him from his doubts. With sex, usually. Which was more or less out of the question here in the open, not that they would have let propriety stop them a year ago. But húskarl to the Jarl was going to change his lover, it already had, and Hákan was not sure if it was for the better. Oh, Argis was as respected as ever, but strangely his fame and the promise of a new position brought him little joy and a lot of unease.
He let himself plop down beside Argis, resting one hand on the other man's belly and shaking him slightly. "Oi, quit yar worrying already."
Argis' only reply was a rueful twitch of his lips. He had tried hard to keep up a cheerful facade, but Hákan knew him too well and had caught him brooding. He had been doing it a lot lately. This entire business with the selection and the festivities was wearing him out. Maybe he would be able to catch a break once all of it was over.
"A few more days and the Jarl's gonna choose, you, 'cause, who else is there? That dour toad Faleen?" Hákan snorted, the notion was just ridiculous. Poking Argis gently in the side he continued "I'll get you out and we'll get so drunk, we won't be able to walk straight for a week. How's that sound?"
Laughing out loud Argis shook his head. "It sounds great." He did not mention that once he was in the Jarl's service, he probably would no longer be able to go carousing at a whim. He was pulled out of thoughts when Hákan took his hands and tugged him into a sitting position.
"Here, I got something for you." Hákan reached into his pack for a wrapped bundle that Argis had noticed, but had not asked about. "For luck."
Argis unwrapped the cloth to reveal a beautiful dagger. The hilt was made from rosewood and it had grooves filled with braided wire for a secure grip. Argis did not test the edge. He knew it would be razor sharp.
Hákan watched Argis admire the blade and try out its grip with a gentle smile. It was not the gift he wanted to give his lover, but so far he had found neither the courage nor the proper time to follow his heart's desire. For four years Argis and him had been a couple, which was an unusually long time to be together without any commitment and Hákan firmly believed they belonged together, after all, fate had let them towards each other all those years ago on the battlefield. The amulet was a familiar weight in his pocket. He carried it with him at all times, though he had never put it on. He had not been contemplating married life for long, but lately he felt that maybe he was ready to settle down with the one person he loved. All he had to do was take the amulet and propose. So far, the only thing standing in his way was Argis himself. Or rather, his ambition. Hákan knew Argis would not find any peace, not until he succeed in what he was striving for. He admired his lover's strength of purpose, but Hákan nevertheless looked forward to a time when there would not be just another accomplishment standing between the two of them.
"It's beautiful." Argis beamed at him and leaned in to brush his lips tenderly against Hákan's. "But you did not have to get me anything. After all, I'm going to have you with me, what more could I want?"
Hákan did not hesitate. "I can think of something," he said huskily.
They left shortly after, heading back home and making the most of the afternoon and the night.
xxxx
Argis set out with a group of ten soldiers plus Hákan and Thurek, who was no soldier and in Argis' opinion far too young to accompany them, but would trail after Hákan anyway, who was like a father to the boy. Hákan had a habit of picking up strays, be they human or animal, like the alley cat he had brought home once.
Their destination was the group of Forsworn, who had settled down in some ruins too close to Markarth. It would take them three days to get there and so they took two horses to carry supplies for the men. They had received reports from the Jar's scouts and knew exactly about their target's position and strength. The night before the planned attack their camp was dark and silent, so as not to alert their enemy to their presence. They would attack at dawn, when hopefully the Forsworn would be still asleep. If not, the soldiers still had the advantage of the sun rising behind them, blinding their foes.
In the morning Hákan helped Argis secure the last buckles on the back, before turning his lover around, pulling him close and resting their brows together. It was almost a rite, a few seconds that belonged only to themselves; to forget about the others and the oncoming fight. They stepped back as one and Argis mustered Hákan, who was habitually clad only in his pants and blue warpaint, as he claimed he did not like getting his clothes bloody. Armed with two axes and he looked just like the barbarian he was, right down to his braided hair, which was immaculate. He must have gotten, up extra early to get it right, a fact that amused Argis no end.
Stepping out of their tent, Argis assumed his role as commander, the burden of responsibility a familiar weight on his shoulders. He split the men in half and Hákan's and his own group would attack from different sides, working their way towards each other. Thurek, too young and inexperienced to join the fight would remain behind and guard their camp. Not that it needed protection; that was just Hákan's way of keeping the boy out of trouble.
"Alright, let's get this over with," Argis muttered to Rolfrik, his second in command, and waved at the remaining four men to follow him.
Hákan's group moved off in the other direction, the big Nord looking over his shoulder, laughing as tossed back at Argis "I'll leave some Forsworn for you to fight! If you hurry up!"
They crept up to the camp unnoticed, after Rolfrik had taken out a lonely sentry with one precise shot.
The fight was going as planned. They had managed to surprise the Forsworn and were currently driving the last of them towards the middle of the camp, where a crumbling watchtower stood. Argis saw Hákan leading his soldiers not far away, engaged in a similar way. That was when a thunderous explosion shook the camp, taking out two or three of Hákan's men. An explosion like this could only come from magic.
There had been no mention of a briarheart in the scout's reports. The appearance of the spellcaster presented a problem; they had nobody to counter the magic attacks. "Where did they get a briarheart from?" Argis heard one of the soldiers cry out.
The answer to the question lurked in the tower, but Argis never saw the hagraven step out of the decrepit building. Hákan did. He charged the monstrous witch, burying one of his axes in her neck, but not in time. Whatever foul spell she had cast, it sent Argis flying through the air. He smashed into some rocks and slid to the ground, where he lay unmoving in a broken heap, like a puppet whose stings had been cut.
"Argis!" Hákan yelled, but he could not look after his lover just yet, because there were still Forsworn inside the tower. With a bellow of rage, Hákan stormed into their midst.
oooo
Seeing the hagraven fall, the briarheart watched the great warrior storm the tower, his axes wreaking havoc amongst his enemies. The Nord was a fearsome opponent, one who had claimed many lives already. The briarheart gauged his options and with a shrug he began casting.
oooo
Argis was consumed by pain. From where he was lying on the ground, the left side of his face pressed into the dirt, he could barely make out Hákan, the warrior's blonde hair glowing golden in the rising sum like a halo. He put down the hagraven and entered the watchtower, disappearing from Argis' fading sight.
Moments later a huge ball of fire hit the tower, exploding within and toppling the already crumbling structure.
Argis' heart stopped. No, this could not be happening. Please, Talos, let it be just a hallucination of his. "NO!" he heard himself shouting, his frantic pulse a hum in his ears. "Nooo! HÁKAN!"
He tried to get up, but the effort sent a spike of such agony through his body, his vision blacked out completely. He continued to scream even though it hurt, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish of his soul. His chest felt like somebody had plunged a red-hot knife through it and was slowly twisting it around, ripping out his heart in the process. Argis kept calling after his lover, until his breath stuttered and finally, with one last tormented cry it faltered.
xxxx
Rolfrik drew his last arrow and with a deep breath he nocked it, risking a glance at the briarheart from his hiding place. He sent a short prayer to Talos, drew his bow and stepped out from cover. His aim was true and the arrow punched straight through the chest of the briarheart, extinguishing the glow that emanated from the spellcaster and putting a stop to the man's deadly volley of magic.
With the briarheart dead the fighting was over. He had sacrificed the last of is kinsman in order to deal a crucial blow to the attackers. Of their own men, Rolfrik saw that two were still standing and both looked hurt, though not fatally. He had seen Argis hit by a blinding white flash and watched in horror as the fireball caused the tower to collapse on itself seconds later, burying everybody inside.
He could mourn the dead later, for now his concern was for the living. With a sinking heart Rolfrik made his way over to where he had seen his commander fall.
xxxx
There were voices, but Argis' ears were ringing and when he opened his eyes his vision swam in and out of focus. It seemed some people were arguing nearby.
"...if his back's broke… ," Argis heard one of the soldiers say and a cold dread gripped him. Oh gods, please no. He could face death, but being crippled for the rest of his life, never to walk again was just too much.
"It's not just his back I'm worried about, it's his head," another voice cut in. Rolfrik, Argis' mind supplied. "We need to turn him around, but carefully. On three!"
Argis must have fainted when they moved him, because when next he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back and there were four faces looking down on him. Just four. Rolfrik, Lars, Fjol and Thurek. Where were the others? Where was Hákan?
He tried to move, to look around, but Rolfrik restrained him. "Don't move," the veteran commanded him, not unkindly. He uncorked a red bottle, a healing potion Argis realized, and knelt next to Argis, telling him calmly to drink.
Argis did not understand. His lover would never leave him alone when he was hurt. He was still gazing around, trying to catch a glimpse of the familiar smile, of a strand of light blonde hair. "Hákan," he ground out. "Where's Hákan?"
Confused as he was, Argis did not miss Rolfrik twitch. Instead of answering the veteran propped the bottle against Argis' lips, repeating his former request. "Drink."
Argis lifted his hand to ward off the man when his eyes lit on a pile of rubble not far from where he was lying. Fjol moved to block his line of sight, but it had been enough to bring the memories back.
The hagraven. Hákan fighting Forsworn in the tower. A fiery flash of light and stones falling. Grief washed over Argis and he felt tears well in his eyes and sobs wracked his damaged body.
Once again he had failed, not able to protect the one thing, the one person who meant more to him than life itself. He did not want to go on. A life without Hákan's smiles and his laughter was dark and dreary and not something Argis wanted to endure. Death would be preferable.
With a desperate strength Argis gripped Rolfrik's wrist. "Please," he wheezed out. "Please let me go. Let me go to Sovngarde." He was imploring the man with tear filled eyes, hoping his friend would understand.
xxxx
Rolfrik looked at the man who was his friend and commander. They would all mourn Hákan's loss, the big, cheerful warrior had been well-liked by all. Argis though looked devastated. Their relationship had been no secret and for one moment Rolfrik considered to give in to Argis' request, thinking that it might be kinder to let him slip away to the afterlife and the Hall of Valor, where he would be united with his beloved one.
"I'm sorry, my friend," the veteran said softly, before turning to the remaining soldiers. "Hold him down."
Argis tried to fight them off, but he had little strength left and when Rolfrik held his nose closed, it was a choice between drinking the potion and passing out from lack of air. He almost did, but instinct overrode his will and he was forced to gulp down the entire contents of the bottle. The pressure of hands lifted off his body and Argis was left coughing and feeling betrayed. He was aware of the potion healing his body, but no amount of magic would be able to erase his sorrow.
Rolfrik watched the healing process avidly. Apart from the left side of his face, where the magic had struck, Argis had little visible wounds, but he must have sustained heavy internal damage after crashing into the rocks as he had done. The most grievous injury was to his head, a long cut that bled profusely and, if Rolfrik had guessed correctly, a fractured skull. Evidence of severe head trauma was visible, as Argis' left eye had slowly filled with blood, his pupils dilated and uneven in size.
There was a light glow around Argis as the magic mended wounds that would normally take weeks to heal on their own, within minutes. The blood drained from Argis' left eye, but it was left forever milky and unseeing; some damage could not even be repaired by magic.
xxxx
Despite the healing process leaving him drained, Argis staggered upright. His walk was unsteady, but he was determined to reach the remains of the tower, a mould made from what must have been several tons of stone.
"Hákan!" Argis roared. There was no answer.
Argis attempted to shove a boulder away, but it would not budge. He tried another one, continued digging until his hands were cut open and his nails cracked and bloody, calling out for his lover from time to time, fervently listening for an answer.
It was in vain. Giving up hope at last, Argis let himself collapse next to the heap of ruins. It was an apt description for what his life had become during the course of one day. He remained on the ground, sobbing, until Rolfrik came to pick him up. "We must get away. The sun will set early with the mountains all around us and then predators will come."
Argis let himself be dragged off; he had no strength left to resist. His initial anger at Rolfrik had turned to a feeling of helplessness and finally, apathy. Rolfrik had taken over the command for the moment, leading the few survivors back, towards Markarth. They did not go far though, late as the day already was.
When they set up camp for the night, at least the soldiers turned away to give Argis some semblance of privacy as he wept. He was not the only one. They all could hear Thurek's sniffles throughout the night.
oooo
The Divines must have abandoned them and their cause entirely, because the next day Argis saw a bulky shadow trailing after them. Why it targeted them when they had left behind a field of corpses just a few miles away they did not know. It was either young and inexperienced or starving and desperate. A group of five was tough prey, but they were vulnerable due to exhaustion. The healing potions took their toll on the body, sustained as they were by the energy of the one who drank the magical concoction.
In any case they built up the fire in the night and kept a close watch. The sabrecat struck in the wee hours of the morning.
Like an arrow the beast shot out of the underground, leaping at the unlucky Fjol, its powerful hind legs and sharp claws disembowelling its victim. The man's agonized shrieks woke Argis up. Dazed, he clumsily reached for his sword and shield.
Of their group, Thurek was the fastest to react. He picked up the oil carafe and tossed into the flames. With a low thump the fire flared up, bigger than men-height and a wave of heat passed over them.
The sabrecat let out a frightened yowl and let off Fjol, but instead of fleeing it went in a frenzy, ears flattened against its skull, it was spitting and hissing at the soldiers. The cat must have been ravenous to brave such opposition.
Argis had no warning as the great predator suddenly lunged at him. He smashed his shield into the cat's face, breaking one of its front teeth, but momentum carried it onwards, knocking Argis flat on his back. Argis felt pain flash across his left cheek, before the sabrecat's front claws found purchase in Argis' chest, cutting deep and if he did not react quickly, his fate would be the same as Fjol's. The impact stunned the warrior and he dropped his sword, but while he fell his hand had grazed something he had forgotten.
For one moment Argis believed he could feel the warmth of sunshine upon his face and he clearly heard Hákan's deep voice. "For luck".
Snarling himself, Argis pulled the dagger and stabbed into the sabrecat's throat and, when the beast jerked violently, again, into its eye-socket. The cat had one final spasm, before it fell over and its claws were ripped out of Argis' chest, leaving behind deep gouges. Argis coughed and felt the salty taste of blood fill his mouth.
As suddenly as the fight had begun, it was over again. Somebody was screaming, a high piercing sound, that was cut off abruptly and when Argis turned his head he saw Rolfrik pulling his blade from Fjol's chest, putting a swift end to the man's suffering.
xxxx
Rolfrik cursed vehemently. Had not enough misfortune befallen them already? Argis was down, again. It seemed there was no end to the man's ill luck.
"Do we have another healing potion?". Lars asked the veteran.
Rolfrik shook his head. "No. We only had three." Lars and Fjol had drunk the other two.
Judging by the rasp in Argis' breath, the man's lung might have sustained injury. He would not be going anywhere.
"Tie the horses together and put two poles between, shoulders and rear. We'll take our blankets and make a stretcher," Rolfrik ordered. "I will sort through our things; we will leave behind everything that can be spared. We set out immediately." There was a short bustle of activity and then, after treating Argis' wounds, Lars and Rolfrik heaved the injured Nord upon their makeshift stretcher between the two horses. The animals looked pretty unhappy with their new burden.
Rolfrik kept their little group walking through the day, not allowing them any rest until evening. By them Argis was alternately shivering and sweating. When Rolfrik checked on him, his skin was hot to the touch and it felt clammy.
"This ain't right."
Rolfrik knew that the sabrecat's claws had been filthy, but for an infection to set in so quickly? True, Argis' body was weakened, but his state was beyond normal.
The veteran boiled some water to wash the wounds once again. When he unwrapped the bandages, one gash in particular looked inflamed. It was an angry red and light pressure caused the wound to weep pus and a milky coloured liquid. Rolfrik leaned closer, and in the last rays of the setting he saw something whitish distorting the wound.
"Holy Talos!" Rolfrik's eyes grew wide. With the help of his pocketknife he pulled a three inch long claw from Argis' chest. It was a small mercy that Argis was no longer conscious by then. Time was running out. Staring at the find, the soldier pocketed the claw, turning to Lars and Thurek, who sat on the ground slumped with exhaustion. "We go on."
xxxx
At noon of the second day the city of Markarth came into view. Instead of a parade, their entry resembled a funeral procession. In a way, it was.
A traumatized, half-blind warrior whose recuperation was not a thing of certainty was not fit to be the Jarl's bodyguard. Igmund chose Faleen as his housecarl, but plagued by his conscience the Jarl took pity on Argis and appointed him húskarl – to Vlindrel Hall.
A meaningless title, as empty as the gaping hole in Argis' chest, where his heart had been.
