Bit of bad news.
I'm swamped with schoolwork, working on my bachelor degree as well as other courses. And I also work on the side.
Meaning I haven't had much time to work on the next chapter.
I'll try to get it done in two weeks, but I make no promises.
So if I haven't published the next one, two weeks from now, just wait a bit longer.
I know some people fear that writers quit their fanfics for some reason. Know this.
I have NO intention of quitting!
I have over 20 unpublished chapters that I just need to fill in the ¨blanks¨ between so there is no way I'll back out having written that much already.
It's just that I need to spend time on my studies and work as well, and my hobby of writing is something that might slow down from time to time.
That said.
Enjoy
The Silver Hand
"You're late." Aela leaned against the oak table in her usual cross armed pose, slightly annoyed by my belated arrival, as I entered Jorrvaskr.
"I know." I exclaimed, shutting the heavy doors behind me, Ysolda's kiss still warm on my cheek.
"And where's your armor?" She asked, clearly dissatisfied with my casual appearance.
"Downstairs." I answered, as I hurried across the room towards the basement stairs.
"You don't take it home?" Aela judgingly asked.
"What's the use of owning a mannequin if I don't use it?" I spat, almost annoyed at her questioning.
"I'll make you something to eat, dear." Tilma pitched in as I went down the stairs, stirring in the cooking pot hanging from an iron stand over the heartfire.
"He doesn't have time to eat." Aela turned her head towards Tilma, giving her an impatient look.
"Can't fight on an empty stomach, now can he?" Tilma answered, indifferently ignoring Aela's look.
"Just get me something for the road!" I shouted from beneath the stairs.
When I entered the basement, I was instantly faced with darkness. Tilma had lit a few candles here and there when she had awoken, but far from all of them. Their flickering lights barely covered the hallway. It had been months since Skjor and Aela turned me, yet I still hadn't adapted to how quickly my ¨new¨ eyes adjusted to the dark. In mere seconds the few lights decorating the hall with their dim lights seemed to be more than enough for me to see as clearly as though all of them had been lit.
The door to the shared bedchamber was still shut, which meant none of the others had yet to awaken. Confirmed by the clear snoring from within. I didn't need to guess to know Torvar was the loudest contestant amongst the four sleepers within.
As I continued, I had no choice but to walk past Farkas's and Vilkas's room, as their rooms flanked the hallway that led to mine. Torvar's snoring was nothing compared to the loud beast resting behind Farkas's door. The sounds were enough to make cream turn to butter. Luckily, Farkas's snoring dampened the sounds leaving his opposite door. Muffled shouts and screams could be heard from within as I passed. It wasn't the first time I had heard Vilkas scream in his sleep, but I never got used to it. I hadn't known nightmares were one of the downsides of lycanthropy until I experienced them myself. One of the many things Skjor and Aela had left out when they turned me.
¨How can something that gives this kind of prowess be a curse?¨ Skjor had stated with certainty in his voice.
Yet I never got used to the nightmares, nor hearing the others experiencing them. It was nothing but an accursed, mental torture. I didn't know why, but Vilkas seemed to suffer them more than others. He had, after all, looked sleep deprived ever since I first met him four years ago.
Since I moved in with Ysolda, I mostly used my room for work and storage. My bed was still here, but since I rarely slept in it, my desk had become the main reason for keeping the room. The growing piles of letters and requests from Riften decorating my desk clearly showed how much I loathed the paperwork part of my responsibilities. My writing had improved drastically since before I was handed the responsibility, but because I could now write well didn't mean I enjoyed it. Not one bit…
"Aela will surely take my ear if I don't hurry," I thought as I stripped my wolf armor off the mannequin standing in the corner. Donning heavy armor alone was close to impossible without an extra pair of hands. Even with help it would easily take far longer time than either Aela or I had. Something Eorlund once again obviously had taken into account when designing the wolf armor.
The inner layer of the wolf armor, a skirted wolf-fursuit, slipped easily over my head. But the challenge came with the dull gray armor plating. Usually one would need help with getting into the heavy armor pieces, but since Eorlund split the chest plate and replaced the straps with buttons, all I had to do was place the back piece on my bed and attach the chest piece as I lie back on top of it. After that equipping the armored boots and vambraces was easy. Still it would take more than the couple of minutes I knew Aela's patience had decided I had.
Light snow began to fall as Skjor entered the wooded area an hour east of Whiterun. One could say it was the first winter snow, but since most of Skyrim lived under constant winter and frost, that statement would hardly be true. The tall pines lightly swayed back and forth above Skjor's head as the winds of Skyrim's early autumn caressed their branches with their touch. The sound of squirrels squeaking, small birds chirping, and the calming murmur of the White River, flowing to Skjor's left, gave the forest an atmosphere that begged for calm with its charmingly pacifying aura.
Skjor had always found peace in nature, for he found it was the calmest form of Nirn, and so did the restless wolf within him. The wolf Skjor long ago had managed to leash into submission through self-discipline and will alone. A ¨leash¨ Skjor would instantly jerk at any sign of disobedience. And Skjor have taken great pride in taming his wolf, for if he could conquer his own inner wolf, he could conquer any man… A philosophy he had engraved into his heart long ago.
"All done," I said as I came up the stairs and entered the main hall of Jorrvaskr.
"Took you long enough." Aela was leaning on the table in the same spot, arms still crossed with impatience.
"Where's Skjor?" As I looked around the room, I realized I hadn't seen Skjor yet. For him to be late was beyond unlikely. Circle member or not, he always punished me with ten pushups per minute I had been late for training.
"He already left." Judging by the tone in her voice, she clearly blamed my belatedness for his early departure. "Just minutes before you came…"
"He must have quite a head start then…" I thought as I fastened my dagger at my waist.
"Well, no time to waste." Aela grabbed her bow off the table and began heading for the door, nodding at me to follow.
"Hold on, dear," Tilma said as she grabbed a small bag and approached me. "Just a little something for the road."
The place was under heavier guard than Skjor had anticipated. Scouting the place had been easy. Being in the middle of the woods, the surrounding fauna offered Skjor more than enough camouflage as he had crawled beneath the bushes to take a closer look.
The information had been good, but Skjor admitted he had underestimated its content. This wasn't just a ¨camp¨ the Silver Hand used. It was a base, with a training area, kitchen, stables, wood chopping block, and more… All surrounding the central area of the old stone fort they had appropriated for their base.
Skjor counted at least two dozen Silver Hands working or pacing about the area and there was no way of telling how many more they had stationed inside.
Skjor exhaled deeply as he began questioning his strategy. Three Companions against an entire fort of Silver Hands? The odds were not impossible, but they weren't in their favor either.
Skjor scratched behind his ear in thought. He needed to think this over… Best way to do that was to draw back and await Aela and the ¨new-blood¨ at the agreed upon spot. At least he'll have some time to think while he waited.
Light snow slowly drifted around us as we walked. The fields of Whiterun, still yellow and brown, flowed with the winds as a thin layer of white powder flew from under our feet with each step.
"So where are we going?" I asked as I walked next to Aela.
"Skjor didn't tell you?" Aela gave me a look.
"Other than to meet the two of you, no?"
Aela slightly chewed on the inside of her lip as she searched for words to give me an explanation. "How much do you know about the Silver Hand?" She finally started after a moment of walking in silence.
"Not much…" I had faced the Silver Hand only once before, at Dustman's Cairn with Farkas, and Farkas hadn't told me much when I asked back then. Or maybe he didn't know any more beyond what he told me. After all, Farkas didn't own the sharpest of heads. "Farkas said they hunt werewolves, right?"
"Sounds like Farkas. Close enough, I guess." Aela tightened her archery vambrace before continuing, "They're warriors, not that unlike us. And like us they fight for honor in Ysgramor's name."
"For Ysgramor? Why?" I knew most Nords revered many heroes of old such as Ysgramor and Ysmir, and Shor the forefather of men. But to think the Silver Hand fought to honor Ysgramor? When they had made it their purpose to fight one of the remaining legacies Ysgramor had left behind, The Companions? That didn't make sense.
"You'll have to ask Vignar for details." Aela answered with a look. "I never cared much for history, so I only know the short version."
"Which is?" Raising my eyebrows, I gave her a look of slight curiosity.
"I heard they used to be Companions." Aelas tone became more serious as she spoke, yet there was a hint of ridicule in her voice. "Some hundred years ago, when The Companions became werewolves, they split in two. One side accepted Hircine's gift and promise for strength, while the other side believed true Nords should fight using their own strength and not rely on promises from a Deadric Prince. And since werewolves can't enter Sovngarde to feast alongside Ysgramor in the afterlife, they saw that as proof of their belief. So war broke out between the two…" Aela gestured with one of her hands as she spoke. "Of course the werewolves won with ease and the wolfblood remain at Jorrvaskr till this day, while the other side named themselves the Silver Hand and scurried off in dishonor to hide. We've been fighting them ever since, whenever they'd stick their heads up from their hiding spots. They never really were a threat, but for the last six months or so it seems they've started recruiting. So Skjor figured we'd take the fighting to them for once. Before their numbers become a real threat."
This was definitely news to me. Looking at the snow-covered road in front of us, my mind wobbling with thoughts. They used to be Companions? ¨True¨ Nords? Your own strength? Is that why they, like us, search for pieces of Wuuthrad? Some of the things Aela had said made sense to me. Could the enhanced strengths and senses that came with lycanthropy really be called my own power? Kodlak had even hinted me the same philosophy on afterlife.
"But… weren't they right?" I turned my head towards Aela, almost afraid to ask.
"Ha! You sound like the old man…" Judging disagreement was in her voice. "Listen… This is the way I see it. There are those who are strong and those who are weak, and the strong will always defeat the weak. Something that gives this kind of strength isn't a curse, no matter what the old man says. If he's worried about some mead-swilling afterlife in Sovngarde, he's free to pursue it. I'll take the glories of the hunt right here." Her moon white eyes almost pierced me as she truly believed her preaching. "And trust me when I say: Your strength is your own…" Aela aimed her head straight ahead and picked up her pace, she was done with this conversation.
Perhaps Aela was right… How was I to know? All I knew was that after my turning I had gotten significantly stronger in almost every way. And I liked it. Maybe that was the only thing that mattered? That I liked it. Training had become easy to the point that I rarely lost my breath or became fatigued. The only downsides were… well, they were what they were. As for the afterlife? I still wasn't sure if I even believed in such a thing. It wasn't like anyone ever came back to tell. At least not that I knew of…
"Thought we hadn't noticed you, did you?"
Skjor instinctively rose from his campfire as the men aiming their bows at him came out of the surrounding trees. Hand instantly on his blade hilt, he took a defensive stance and quickly scanned his surroundings. Ten, eleven, twelve of them…
It was rare for him to be taken by surprise, but the Silver Hands' movement had been far more silent than he thought them to be. Even their scents had been masked. But as soon as the initial alarm settled in him it didn't seem that surprising anymore. They were used to hunting werewolves. Of course they'd train and prepare against their enhanced hearing and sense of smell as well.
A short, deep ¨hum¨ left his throat as he recognized the severity of his situation. He knew he could take on twelve men, easily, if not for the archers. But without a shield sibling, his back would be constantly exposed, and having an open back when surrounded isn't the best of situations when fighting archers. Might as well paint a target on one's back. This would be well above more than equal fight.
"Drop your sword and you won't be hurt," one of the men said harshly. Judging by his armor, heavier than the rest, he must be in charge of the group.
Won't be hurt? Skjor's eyes sharpened at the statement as his fingers slowly made themselves comfortable around his sword hilt. Silver Hands usually attacked to kill werewolves on sight. Did the man indicate surrender was an option? Why?
"You want me alive?" Distrust in his voice as he kept his eyes on the men.
"Oh, I'm afraid Krev has plans for you, wolf." With a sadistic grin the leader gestured for his men to lower their bows and draw their blunt clubs and poles.
"Well that changes things," Skjor thought as a thin, discreet smile spread across his lips. If they weren't allowed to lethally wound him, then this fight had turned more than easy.
"Come then." Skjor drew his sword and took up his stance. "I'm not going down without a fight."
"There's twelve of us, against one of you!" Confident, the leader gestured with his hand for the men to move.
A silent laugh left Skjor's nose. He knew no matter the number of opponents, there wouldn't be room around him for more than five to attack at once. And with no archers to worry about, all he had to do was end them swiftly as they came within his reach.
"No. There's only five of you," Skjor said with hidden glee as his muscles prepared to move.
Three of the men approached at once, holding their clubs confidently. As the middle man swung his club high, Skjor instantly ducked and dashed beneath his arm, sword following to slash his open armpit. Blood flowed from the open wound, followed by a scream of pain that was instantly silenced as Skjor's blade pierced through the man's neck and left through his gaping mouth. As quickly as Skjor's blade had entered the man's neck, it left to block the incoming attack from his left. Skjor's blade whipped away the incoming club and twisting for a counter. The second man grunted in pain as he fell forward, propelled by his attack, towards Skjor. Skjor grabbed the man's now bleeding wrist, turned and threw the man over his shoulder into the third incoming man, hindering his charge. They both fell on top of each other onto the snowy ground, barely regaining their senses before the cold pain of Skyforge steel found its way through both of them in a single thrust.
Three men lay dead around him in growing puddles of red. With a whip of his blade, Skjor threw a line of red in the snow beside him and turned towards the leader, his facial expression a mixture between seriousness and indifference.
The men were clearly shocked at the sudden execution of their three allies. Their leader clenched his jaw and furrowed his eyebrows in anger, shouting for his men to charge.
Man after man fell under Skjor's blade as he moved like a deadly whirlwind. Decades of training made Skjor's body his true weapon and his blade simply followed behind to execute the men his body had already defeated. There were no wasted movements as he time and time again used his opponents' movement against them and countered to kill. Skjor had long ago mastered his defensive counter technique, and stepping within his reach was nothing less than a death sentence as every incoming attack was instantly used against the attacker.
The leader watched in fright as he saw Skjor's ¨Dance of death¨ ravage his men, snow turning red as he went, until there were no more than five men left standing around him. A slow sense of fear creeped up in the leader's eyes as he watched.
A deep breath left Skjor's lungs as he stared down the remaining five with sharp yet calm eyes. The warm blood covering his sword hand felt sticky as he clenched his sword for a better grip. The men looked nervous, almost afraid, as they circled him for an opening to attack. One of the men charged with a roar, more out of panic than intention. It was a foolish move as he quickly found himself on his knees by Skjor's counter, only to experience the last sensation of warm steel digging into his shoulder to reach his heart.
The remaining four charged at once as Skjor pulled his sword from the corpse. Skjor's body twitched as he twirled under the incoming attacks and again turned to counter, sending one of the men flying. Skjor stopped and grimaced in surprise at the sharp pain that had chosen to make itself known and screamed within his left knee, like a shard of glass twisting beneath his kneecap, scraping against bone.
Skjor cursed the timing of his old injury, as he dropped to one knee wearing pain on his face. Of course it had decided to fail him during the worst of times. He barely had the time to look up before blackening pain smashed over his head, followed by the men yelling and violently clobbering his prone body with vengeance for their fallen friends. Protecting his now bleeding head, Skjor swept his arm under one of the men's legs and knocked him to the ground. Rolling onto his back Skjor kicked upwards. Grunting in pain, one of the men fell to his knees, clenching the groin Skjor's heel had crushed barely a second ago. Seeing an opening, Skjor rolled away from the still standing men and heaved himself up on his feet, holding his left leg off the ground as he could no longer put weight on it.
For a moment, Skjor managed to fend off the remaining men. But only able to stand on one leg, it didn't take long until his situation turned desperately dire. When the four remaining men finally managed to sync their attacks and fight in unison, it didn't take long until Skjor once again fell to the snowy ground. The men again beat him senseless as he lay on the ground. Because heavy armor protected his body, they all aimed for his head. Skjor did his best to search for an opening as he protected his head with his arms, burning from their beating, but to no avail. An unguarded hit and a crack rang in his ears as his vision began fading to black, his senses dulled by forced unconsciousness.
The last thoughts his mind managed to summon, before he lost consciousness, had been of worry for his beloved Aela.