I finally got it done.

I hope you like it, Enjoy.
And merry x-mas to you all.

Death of the High King

The rumors hadn't reached Riften yet, not surprising. Riften was on the far opposite side of Skyrim from Solitude and it'd take more than weeks for the rumors to reach there. But here? In Whiterun? The rumors were all over. Crowds either whispered their thoughts discreetly between one another or shouted them out loud for all to hear. And the few who remained silent eagerly eavesdropped from their windows or kept close enough to hear yet not so close as to get drawn in. Everyone craved, or shared, details for the rumor, neither knowing nor caring how much truth they held. But craving speculations or not, everyone already knew the only part of the rumor that held true. The only part that mattered:

High King Torygg is dead.

Impossible to tell when—the crowds didn't speak of dates. It could've happened a week ago, or a month ago. But it was on every set of lips we passed, impossible to ignore, as we walked the cobblestoned main street. This usually united city suddenly seemed split in thought and belief, bickering like children; arguing in the fashion of I'm right you're wrong no I'm right, you're wrong. It felt… very out of character.

If this had been Riften the guards would already be beating people into silence before throwing them behind rust-covered bars into a moldy cell of stone. But, thankfully, this isn't Riften; the people speaking their minds was something Jarl Balgruuf not only tolerated but appreciated, even. He expected the same of his guards. Here, the guards didn't need to intervene, they warded of violence with their presence alone. As loud and bickering as they were, they still remained civil.

But the further we walked the clearer it became and as we met and passed Idolaf Battle-Born, proudly donning his Imperial armor out in the open as he gave dirty looks to anyone mentioning Ulfric or the Stormclaks, I realized: the city didn't seem split… it was split. And the Battle-Borns had clearly already picked their side.

I wonder what Vignar would have to say about that. He never hesitated to speak ill of the Battle-Borns whenever he saw a chance for it, some feud between them—the Battle-Borns and the Gray-Manes—that I never cared to dig into. Eorlund sure never spoke of it—one of the few in that family who didn't seem to care enough about it—but Vignar's stubborn enough that he might just side with the Stormcloaks simply to oppose the Battle-Borns.

The city was split. Half the crowds shouted: the Empire is weak, Ulfric Stormcloak proved it! He challenged the High King in a fair fight! We don't need them anymore! A free Skyrim! Screw the White-Gold Concordat! For Talos!

While the other half shouted: Ulfric Stormcloak is a traitor! He murdered the High King! Skyrim isn't part of the Empire, Skyrim is the Empire! Ulfric betrayed us! We need the Empire more than ever, and they need us!

"How long ago did you say the Jarl of Windhelm left for Solitude?" I asked Njada as we made our way through the loud marketplace.

"Not sure," she said, studying her surroundings as we walked, "A month ago? Two?"

"Hm," I let out, too, studying my surroundings as I pondered the question: How long does it take to travel from Windhelm to Solitude? I didn't know, and I didn't ponder on it too long as my thoughts independently went elsewhere:

The marketplace… this is where I first saw her—a redhead in the crowd. Hair like autumn fire, frost-edged leaves. The first time she had noticed me and our eyes had locked she had smiled. I could still see her; bright amber eyes smiling softly with clear interest through the crowd. A memory, once again, brought into reality. Forced into reality. It reminded me of yet another thing:

I hated being in this city. It always made my hand hurt.

"You really think he did it? Killed the High King?" I asked to take my mind off my hand as I repeatedly made a soft fist to dull the pain.

"Does it matter?" she said, "Everyone else seems to think so. Either way, it doesn't affect us."

"Not yet," I said as the gnawing pain slowly faded into a pulsating pressure, and like that it remained. "As much as we stay out of politics it may be impossible to stay out of something like this for long. It's too big."

"You know how rumors are, they're probably over-exaggerated," she said.

"Over exaggerated?" I repeated sarcastically and gave her a sideways look, "How does one over exaggerate the death of a king?"

"I meant Ulfric," she continued, "I've met him enough times to know he's no murderer. He values honor, and the old ways, traditions, and respect. He'd never resort to straight-up murder—especially not the High King."

"Taking sides?" I asked.

"No," she said sharply, but giving me an indifferent look, "I'm simply saying if Ulfric killed the High King, he did so for a good reason…" she looked back forward as we walked before finishing her sentence, "At least according to his own mind."

"Let's just get to Jorrvaskr," I said, "the less we get involved the better."

"You're back sooner than we expected, dear," Tilma greeted Njada as she went through the door before me, but as I entered her expression changed to that of surprise, "Oh dear," she let out, "You on the other hand…" she said as her expression settled into something softer, "Welcome back. It's been a while."

Looking around I couldn't tell. Everything looked the same as last time I was here. The same as ever; same old oak chairs around the same set of heavy long tables with red table cloth around that same long slow-burning coal-fire burrowed into the deep length in the stone floor. That hefty layer of white smoke up by the high ceiling pushing to seep through the small cracked open windows. The same worn down red carpets and Wuuthrad embroidered golden-stitched red banners lay and hung in their usual places. Side tables sitting in their usual spots with the same set of candlestands on them. That book-filled bookcase by Vignars' personal corner. Same old weapon stands and wall-mounted shields. Nothing that told, or even hinted at, the passage of time showed. Everything looked the same as always.

Again the thought hit me, as it had done in Riften when Njada first mentioned, had it really been half a year?

"Any food left?" Njada asked as she made her way into the center of the mead hall, tossing her traveling bag on the floor by her chair as she approached the tables.

"You're a bit late for breakfast, don't you think?" she answered. "You'll have to wait 'til noon. Like everybody else."

Njada didn't hesitate to complain loudly with one of those sharp tss-sounds of hers—they came by habit to her—as I approached, wrinkling her nose and giving Tilma a lame look before she snapped her head to face away.

"Yes," I said as I came to a stop, addressing Tilma, "I guess it's been a while."

"Hm," she let out in a glad sound as she looked up at me with a soft smile, that proud-looking face she gave rarely enough that one forgot she had them. Made me wonder why? "Should I get the others?" she asked.

"No need to interrupt their training," I said, it was around that time, and even before we entered Jorrvaskr I had heard them all training in the backyard behind the building. "Besides, I'd like to get settled while I have the time," I finished, nodding my head toward my own bag hanging over my shoulder.

"You do that," she said. "I've kept your room clean, not that there's been much to clean with no one using it. Spiderwebs… mostly."

"Thank you," I said, ignoring the obvious you've-been-away-a-long-time tease she hinted as I turned for Njada, "My letter?"

With her side against me, she crossed her arms and looked at me with cold condescending eyes. I waited as she looked me up and down, feeling my patience sap away. She had always been like this, arrogant to say the least, but that part of her only seemed to have grown since I saw her last. Made me wonder if the title of ¨Circle-member¨ had gotten to her head? There are, after all, no ranks in the Companions. But then again, even before he died Njada had been the only one who openly, without hesitation, gave lip to Skjor.

So maybe the title hadn't gotten to her head, but rather opened the door to simply reveal more of who she truly was; a professional bitch—not a trait uncommon nor uncalled for in a female Companion, perhaps even needed. Aela showed much of the same, although in a more mature way if one can call it that.

"My letter?" I repeated sharply and straightening my back and neck as my patience finally outgrew her cold silent attitude. That letter is the only reason I returned, I wouldn't have minded staying in the morose company of the Rift for yet six more months. Especially if this is what I had to return to. Curse you Vilkas, you sly, clever, and brilliant old-souled wolf for forcing my return.

"Should be on your desk," she said, stated, without moving a muscle in neither face nor posture.

Without moving a muscle. There are two ways to interpret that; glaring indifference, or withheld fear—the kind of fear that creeps coldly beneath one's skin without you realizing it before it shows up as goosebumps and cold sweat.

"No need to tell the others yet," I said, turning back to Tilma, "I'll make myself known when I've had my time."

"No need?" Tilma asked, seemingly taken back, "They'd all be glad to see you're back."

"We've traveled for days, and I've been away longer. I'd like an hour or two to get settled."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I said, tightening the grip on my bag as I turned to head for the basement stairs. "I'll come to meet the others when I feel for it. You too, Njada, no need to tell."

"Tss."

"You young ones," I heard Tilma mumble behind my back as I walked, "Be like that then. But you can't stop me from making something special for dinner. I'm sure Kodlak would want a feast for your return."

"Tomorrow," I spoke out loud as I walked, "I'm sure that'll give you time to make a grander feast." Though, to tell the truth, I could do without the attention. But that half-assed promise would keep her occupied, perhaps even distracted, at least for today.

"I need to leave," I said as I tossed my father's letter on Kodlak's desk table.

"Is that so?" he mumbles through his hand as he stroked his beard and gave me a look over his shoulder before he looked back forward to read the letter. "Is that why you called everyone to my chambers?" he asked as he read.

"I suppose," I said and looked over the room.

Farkas stood brooding by the doorway as he leaned, arms crossed, against the wall. Aela and Vilkas sat looking at us from Kodlak's corner table with skepticism on their faces, Vilkas discreetly, or to me not so discreetly, ruminating as he awaited Kodlak's reaction, though, as always, he hid it well.

"Why?" Aela asked inconspicuously.

"Because—"

"It seems the Empire has been quick in taking actions—a consequence of the High King's death I am sure," Kodlak interrupted me as he turned the chair to face the rest of us as he had finished reading my letter. "They're recruiting. And as logic tells, the first ones to be called are those who are already enlisted."

"Enlisted?" Aela repeated with a confused look, turning her head for me, "But you're not enlisted."

"No," I said as I looked back at Aela, "But my father is. He served in The Great War and is still an Imperial soldier, so now he's been called. Or… summoned as the letter says."

"Summoned indeed," Kodlak continued. "As in all Eras before, once signed up as one of the Empire you are in it for life. A simple way to take advantage, and to reuse, those who have served before… and survived. And as all well-thought-out strategies, they have even given tough into how to best… reuse even those no longer fit for battle, by making it a matter of family." He gave me a glance as he finished.

Vilkas, too, gave me a sudden hard look as Kodlak had finished his statement; clearly understanding the depth of his words. Aela, however, did not, "What?" she asked. More annoyed than confused.

"Every soldier of the Empire is free to forego their obligation to serve by surrogating their place of duty to an offspring within their family—within blood. To send a son or a daughter in their stead," Kodlak explained.

"Right," I said. Feeling strangely alone in the middle of Kodlak's room.

"And you're their only son," Vilkas said in a low voice, giving me a serious look as he fully understood.

"Right," I repeated in a suddenly sullen mood: been a long time since I thought of my brother, "The only one left… so I have to go."

"I hate to speak the obvious," Kodlak said, again drawing our attention, "And more so, I hate how the obvious won't affect your decision, for I see it has already been set in your mind. But you're a Companion. And by our honor—constituted by Mryfwill, Harbinger of old—Companion neutrality deems you have the right of refusal."

"And send my father to die?" I said.

"As I said I am simply stating the obvious. Even if a decision has been made it is important to be aware of one's options, and perhaps, reconsider," he stated. So very much like him. For an old man, his eyes always held a youthful sharpness. Deep clarity. Every time we ever talked, they always looked like that. studying and wise. As if he saw, not through you, but rather, into you. Knowing my answers before I knew them myself. Made all our conversations feel one-sided.

"To me, Kodlak, it's not an option. My father's over fifty winters, he's not fit for war. He'd die. And my mother can't care for the farm by herself while he'd be gone, and his death would ruin her. It's… it's not a matter of choice."

"That, I know," he continued deeply with a brief pause, "I only seek to wish that you don't act rashly. That you consider your options—for even when it seems not, there are always options."

As aggravating as ever. Claiming to know my answer yet actively attempting to guide me away from it. Why? This is why I rarely sought answers from Kodlak, for he never offered any. Only more questions. Whatever he dug for me to think, the options were already clear to me: Yes or no.

If I stay, my father will most likely die in battle. If I leave, I, a moon born Circle member Companion, might die. I, at least, stand an infinite grander chance than my aged father. No, the choice wasn't in question at all: it was common sense.

With a sigh for Kodlak, I turned to Vilkas, giving him that look I always give when I feel annoyed by the old man. Didn't take him long to get the hint.

"So," he started with that serious look of his as he leaned forward, elbows heavy on his knees, "Did you call us here to tell us you're leaving, or were you hoping for us to stop you from leaving?"

Not… the words I had expected. It took me aback. But then I didn't know what I had expected, other than perhaps understanding.

"I…" I started searching for an answer, coming up with none. "I don't know."

"Yet your mind is set?" Kodlak said less than asked behind me.

"It is," I said. Vilkas and Aela both gave me a patient look with just a hint of confusion: I didn't really answer his question did I? I should: "My mind is set, Vilkas. I simply don't know why I called you all here. Kodlak alone would've done."

"So there's no convincing you out of it?" Vilkas asked leaning back in his chair, hands brushing along his knees to end, resting, on his tighs.

"No," I said. "I guess I'm going to war."

War… A moment of silence passed as I sighed once again. Everyone, more or less, sighed and seemed to go dark for a moment as they took in the word. One of those moments when everyone has something on their mind yet no one knows how to speak it.

"Not war," Kodlak—the only one knowing how to speak it— said reassuringly behind me, making me turn to look over my shoulder. "A rebellion, to be sure, but not yet a war. An unlit bonfire given embers not yet knowing if it will take aflame."

He fell quiet for a moment, making sure he had all of our attention. Needless to say, he did. Everyone had their eyes set on him.

"As you all know, we steep away from all forms of politics. Yet the rift between politics and non-politics remains vague, and thus Companion neutrality, our honor, remains hard to define. As Harbinger, it is one of my duties to separate the two. But the ignorant can not separate. Thus I can not be ignorant… the true role of the Harbinger is understanding, and through understanding, guidance."

"Just out with it, old man," Aela said.

"Patience, young one," he said calmly as he gave Aela a soft look, "knowing the answer is rarely as important as in knowing how to know the answer."

Again I gave Vilkas that look; that's Kodlak for you, never giving you a straight out answer but stubbornly forcing you to figure it out by yourself. Perhaps he faked it. Perhaps he didn't know. Perhaps he masqueraded his wisdom behind well-spoken words and false insight. Isn't that how old people survive? Feigning importance?

Yet Vilkas didn't answer my look, he dismissed it and looked past me. At Kodlak. "Then share what you know," he said.

"Aye," Kodlak said to answer Vilkas. "Politics and non-politics can-not be separated by one not well versed within the two, and thus, the role of Harbinger demands it. It falls upon me. This is why—as some of you know, and others don't—all of our contracts go through me before they reach you; the members of the Circle. It is my role and duty, one of many, to separate the two. Because of that, knowledge within all the ongoings of importance is essential to me. As well as the people involved. Politics can not slip me by, as I can not ignore what I do not know."

"I'm with Aela on this one," I said, "You clearly know more than us, out with it."

"Aye," he said as he looked up at me, leaning back in his chair as he stroked his thick white beard with one hand before lifting both of them to draw them over his head and correct that thick braid of white hair. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he said as he seemed satisfied with how the braid ran down his neck, over the backrest of his chair, and parallel with his spine. "There are plenty of reasons I've long ignored… most of his contracts—the Windhelm contracts. Not out of petty, stubbornness, nor obvious reasons of politics. But rather, honorable as he may be, he is no coward.

"Most 'honorable' men of our times respond to insult with silence, turning a cold shoulder as punishment. They believe severing their contact is enough punishment to teach you a lesson, that their lack and loss of presence is enough to make you realize your mistake—an ill-fit parent's harsh punishment toward an unknowing child. But Ulfric is not a man of our times. He was raised by the traditions of old. Ancient, tradition reaching toward the Atmorans of old. Yes Vilkas, I see you ponder. Tradition older than me.

"Unlike Skjor, now feasting in Shor's hall I am sure, I unwillingly, and unintentionally, avoided the Great War, for by then I had recently been made a Companion, and many years after that, Harbinger. And as such, I knew little in the ways of full out war, the politicall nature behind it, and my first responsibility as Harbinger was seeking the knowledge and awareness of all of our employers: The Jarls. I needed education in the matter. A tedious task, at first, but soon that task's importance became apparent to me; all Jarls deal in politics. And in hiring our services, all Jarls seek to exploit us. To misuse our existence for their own personal gain. To use us Companions—The Strongest of Skyrim—like pieces on their own personal boards where they all play the King.

"But unlike most, if not all, Ulfric was different. Unlike the contracts of others, he never hid his true intent. His contracts were honest, honorable, and pure. It made me wary. Distrustful. Only the innocent work in such ways, and the truly honorable, not a man who's earned fame in war, a man who, at the times, had recently taken his father's place as Jarl of Windhelm. I couldn't help but believe his contracts were more than well-crafted lies, capable of deceiving even me, and that he too sought to exploit us.

"But I did not know the man back then. I only had my suspicion. And he stood out. And so I, again, took on the tedious task of study. But this time, instead of the nature behind politics and the important names in Skyrim, my studies fell on Ulfric himself; his present history as well as his recent past.

"And once again I came to realize; Ulfric stood out amongst the crowd of Skyrim's nobility. He was never destined to take on the role of Jarl. His father—Hoag Stomrckloak, The Bear of Eastmarch—had different plans in mind for his son, and he was offered to, and accepted by Graybeards at a young age and studied their ways to one day become one amongst them: A Graybeard himself.

"He spent most of his early younghood amongst them. For many a year, he studied in their ways before, once again, the pull of faith intervened: The Great War."

"The Graybeards?" I asked.

"You don't know the Graybeards?" Aela said condescendingly, "And you call yourself a Nord?"

"Of course I know of the Graybeards," I said, giving her the same condescending look she gave me. Though I admitted, in my mind, that I knew them as little more than old men singing to the Gods atop High Hrothgar—the stories my mother had told me as a child. "But what part are they in politics?"

"Politics?" Vilkas began, not so condescending but rather surprised. "That's not… politics. That's our history."

"As if I ever cared for history," I responded, suddenly feeling assaulted by them both. I grew up on a farm not in a mead hall founded by history—surrounded and defined by history—what should I know?

"Aye, the Graybeards," Kodlak continued, calmly lifting his hand to pacify the others with a soft wave, as well as to redraw our attention. "Old hermits, living atop High Hrothgar—ever watching from atop of the throat of the world. Solemnly. Rumored to prolong their lifespans by the songs of old—or, perhaps, by other means. Who is to say.

"Truly pacifists, scholars of time they are, watching the flow of the world go by. Uncaring. Rarely do they intervene—if ever. The one thing we know for certain is that once the Graybeards call your name, it will be heard across all of Nirn—as it was by the time of Tiber Septim. And so you are bound to hear and follow. Their summoning is not to be ignored, some say, believe even, that it can not be. To be accepted to study amongst them is beyond a great honor. But I sway, back to Ulfric for I see you're once again losing both patience and attention, Aela."

She gave him an annoyed sigh but slowly resettled in her chair, he watched patiently until she crossed her arms over her chest and returned her focus on him. "Many have been offered to the Graybeards in hopes of tutorage, less than a few have been accepted over the last centuries, none summoned. Ulfric Stormclaok, offered by his own father, is one of those few and the most recent one.

"As I said, at an early age Ulfric was accepted to live amongst the Graybeards. To learn the Voice of old—the language of Gods. Why? I do not know. But he was never intended to return to ordinary life after that, even less so to take his father's place as Jarl of Windhelm. For once accepted to become a Graybeard one can never leave High Hrothgar for any reason, one leaves all matters of the world behind.

"Yet return Ulfric did—undoubtfully against the will of the Graybeards—and descended the Throat of the World to willingly take part in the life of commoners once more, more importantly, to heed the call of The Great War."

"The language of the Gods?" I asked. For some reason, that part of his sentence stayed with me. I felt I knew enough about the gods, yet I've never heard they had a language of their own.

"Tell me, Vilkas," Kodlak continued, ignoring, or simply not hearing, my question, "what is the old nordic word for war?"

Aela and I both turned our heads to look at Vilkas—oddly transfixed, both of us.

He gave us both a look, head-turning between the two of us, almost embarrassed, no, pressured, before he calmed and leaned forward as he looked steadily at back at Kodlak. "Season unending," he said.

"Aye," Kodlak said. "Season unending. A fitting word for a race raised in frozen turmoil. And Ulfric, raised in ways older than any common man, knew this word well. I do not know the teachings of the Graybeards, but I do know one thing; The Great War had started.

"Now this is why Ulfric stood out. He was still a young man back then, but he was no longer a boy. But raised in the ways of old by the Graybeards themselves he knew, and knows, of our ancient traditions—traditions I studied by book, he studied by life—and so, young as he was, he already carried an old soul, and any old Nord soul would gladly heed the call of battle. It is not much unlike the same principle we—The Companions—live for; glory in battle, honor in death. He heard its call and heeded, feeling… whatever, and in doing so he turned his back on his own destiny and forged his own path. Descended in his own faith…"

Vilkas seemed transfixed as I glanced over at him; leaning more than forward on his knees as his thumb stroked back and forth in the palm of his other hand. He always fancied history, didn't matter what, when, or why, if it happened before his time he ate it up.

Aela, on the other hand, had sunken deeper back into her chair, arms still crossed and lame eyes that said please-get-to-the-point without the 'please.'

While Farkas, who still hadn't said a word, remained as a leaning statue by the door, he too still had his arms crossed and his face hung low as he seemed to glare down into the floor. Hard to tell if he was listening or if he was locked within that absent void that was his own head; his own little room of nothingness.

"I do not know of his prowess in the war nor the details around him at the time, most likely made secret by the empire as many things were back then," Kolak continued, "But once returned, the war over, Ulfric was branded as a War Hero, famed across all of Skyrim as a wielder of the Thu'um—The Voice of Old.

And even though Ulfric had betrayed his role as a Graybeard, his fame only grew. His father even forgave him his obedience—abandoning his studies with the Graybeards—and took him back by his side in Windhelm where Ulfric soon took up study to one day replace him, and, after Hoag's death, he did.

Hard to say when or where Ulfric's lust for ambition started, but it was surely before this time, for now, as the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric continued his campaign of old belief: His open support to Talos, the Markarth incident, his oppositions to the White-Gold Concordant, his gray-area politic, numerous disagreements with the High King, and now, his opposing, and open challenge, against High King Torygg himself. A challenge that, as we now know, have resulted in his death. And he's never been dishonest nor dishonorable in his intentions in any of these things.

"Now, as I started, most Jarls punish disobedience with cold disregard. But Ulfric is a man of the old ways, and, more importantly, a man of action. And by action, he has proven his worth before your times and now, you young ones, even in your times.

"I am not ashamed, nor so naive, as to not admit: I feel that man holds a far greater understanding of our ways of old, than I myself. A deeper sense of honor than I comprehend. That is why I always question his intent and never hold him in disregard. My sense of honor as Harbinger is restricted to the Companions alone, but Ufric Stormcloak's sense of honor transcends that of mine and envelopes the entirety of Skyrim. In short, it is a matter of responsibility that separates us—the volume of it. That is the role of Harbinger, to see and separate that ever-moving invisible line solely to avoid taking sides. Yet now, with you, here we are: a choice pushed, even forced upon you."

He was looking at me.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, honestly confused by the purpose of it all.

"Because unlike those who've chosen to take part in this upcoming conflict…" Kodlak started, "Your side has already been handed to you. You take it as irony that you have no choice in the matter of leaving or not, but ironic still is the fact that you have no choice at all in the side, the Empire is the side you've been handed."

"And that's a bad thing?" I asked.

"That is not for me to say." he said with a calming gesture as he softly turned his head for my letter before looking back, "But you should at least know your opponent."

"And that's why you're telling me of Ulfric?" I asked again.

"Unlike most others, you don't have the luxury of choosing sides. But you always have the luxury of thought. Ask yourself, young one, given the choice, which side would you choose."

"As you said, I don't have that choice so why spend the thought," I said, "Besides, it's just like any other contract; do as told and I'll get paid. I don't see what difference it makes."

"Ah, the mindset of a Companion," he said, leaning back, "I'm afraid things aren't as easy as that outside of our mead hall, nor as simple."

"Isn't it?" I said in disagreement, "And you're saying our lives are? ¨Simple¨? ¨Easy¨?"

"You know that's not what I meant," he said calmly, "But as a Companion, we fight for our own honor. Live for our own honor. As a soldier, you'll be fighting, and living, for someone else's."

"You know what?" I started, about to say something foolish before I took a breath and stopped myself. "You know what?" I started anew with a new thought, "To me, it's either my father leaves and dies, or I leave and he doesn't. To me, it is as simple as that. I don't need any other thought—eyes on the prey, not the horizon."

"Aye," he said with a brief pause, "Eyes on the prey, not the horizon: our motto of old. Do you know of its origin?" he asked, looking up at me from his chair with that patient look of his as if the question itself had given the answer.

I didn't know, not did I care. But I wasn't about to say that out loud, so I only looked back at him knowing he'd tell me either way.

"It goes back to the time of Ysgramor and the five-hundred Companions. Perhaps even a time before that, when Man still roamed on Atmora—the land of our ancestors…

Again? Another lesson by history, is it? By Ysmir.

"…In their tongue, a language lost to the ages, a single word could be interpreted as many a thing depending on context. And as it happens their word for 'prey' held the same meaning as 'origin of attack', or 'opponent' if you will.

"You see, to the Atmorans, eyes on the prey, not the horizon, was not a saying of philosophy as it is to us. But rather, a saying for the battlefield to keep one alive. To them, it was literal: eyes on the opponent, not that which is behind him."

Funny, that's the first thing Vilka's told me after our first duel: First rule in a fight, never let your opponent out of sight.

"And I care about this because?…" I asked with a drift-away voice.

"It's interesting, is it not? How a saying, so obvious to any self-respecting warrior, over time took on a meaning of deep philosophy even though it was never intended as such," he continued, clearly ignoring my say. "We, today—us Companions—interpret it as 'no need to understand the bigger picture,' or 'don't meddle in politics,' and so on. Yet you…" I thought it impossible but he somehow leaned back even further in his chair, making it seem as if he looked down on me even though he was sitting—something the old man rarely did: look down on people. "…You seem to have taken on its meaning as something else entirely."

He remained in his chair looking at me with that look of his: as if he saw straight into one's soul. Suddenly, something felt off, uncomfortable, as if my stomach had clenched up and my muscles told me to remain still… stiff.

I didn't know what he was getting at but it felt as if my body did, and I didn't like it.

"Aah," he let out with an exhale, possibly, or, most likely seeing exactly what I suddenly felt. "Yes, you've simplified it in it's meaning, perhaps drawn it back to its roots, but simplified it still: one thing at a time, is it not? And only one thing at a time, nothing in between; ¨one contract before the other,¨ ¨one thought at a time,¨ ¨to me, it is simple,¨ ¨the only thing I need to know.¨

Again, he gave that soul-searching look before he straightened himself up without breaking eye contact, "It's a distraction to you, is it not—eyes on the prey, not the horizon—a distraction to always keep you on the move; away from the thoughts in between, the pauses that make one think. It has rendered you simple-minded, not a trait you used to possess."

"That's not how it is, Kodlak," I said, not pleased in the slightest at the sudden turn our conversation had taken.

"I am sure you believe that," he said, "but I've been meaning to speak for you for quite some time now, but distant as you've been—both in body and mind—I've yet had the chance for it. Now, seems as fitting a time as any, perhaps the most fitting."

Here we go, I thought as I threw the others an annoyed look. Aela shrugged her shoulders in a don't-mind-us fashion and gave an uncaring look and Vilkas remained in his chair with a quiet look. Farkas still remained brooding in his spot with his arms crossed over his broad chest and his head tilted down with his sight set on the floor.

"We all carry our burdens, son," he continued as I looked back at him, "and your's is indeed a heavy one. But you've avoided it for far too long, and it has left you stuck in your ways—"

"I came here to tell you I'm leaving," I interrupted, temper growing short, "Not to get insulted or told how to handle my life."

"We've all lost loved ones," he suddenly said in a harsher tone. Not one of annoyance but rather the tone one takes on when lecturing a child. I only found it to be further insulting, I'd rather he show anger than the demeaning attire of a parent. "And we all carry our burdens. But not dealing with them, to ignore them, has never solved anything—and you've ignored yours for far too long—it is dealing with them, no matter how hard, that brings one forward."

"Really?" I snarked with bite, "Skjor?! And you think that compares to—"

"You're a Companion!" he said out loud with an even sterner tone than before and a harch look in his eyes. Like a slap to the face, it instantly shut up. "We deal with our problems head-on. We don't ignore them, and we don't turn them our backs. And we don't avoid them by bringing up the grief of others…"

¨Bringing up the grief of others,¨ isn't that what he had done? Was doing?

"That behavior is unfitting not only warriors of our standard, but any man, woman, or child. You're a Companion—a member of The Circle" he repeated, "Act like it."

He fell quiet as we remained locked in eye contact that only grew harder. "Well," I finally said, straightening myself back, "I'm leaving. So perhaps I won't be a Companion for much longer."

Hard to say what he thought about that, but his eye contact remained as hard.

"Pff!" Aela suddenly let out sharply, ending the uncomfortable silence, "You'll be fine," she said with her usual sting, "You're moon-born! You could take on half the ¨Stormcloak's¨ with your bare hands, and even if you do get injured you'll heal in days what takes others weeks, months."

"Confidence is certainly a tool," Kodlak said in a hard voice as he broke eye contact and looked over at Aela, "but overconfidence is a fool's tool. I've seen far too many strong warriors—capable of slaying foes in the dozens—who've fallen foolishly and blindly to stray arrows or numbers alone as they inevitably tire. There are no duels on the battlefield, luck plays a grander role than skill. And no matter one's skill, there is no knowing the outcome." The second he finished speaking to Aela he looked back at me with that same hard look. Gave me the feeling he had more lecturing on his mind. "But she has a point, yet another downside of your decision," his thoughtful way of speech had returned as that hard tone soothed away. "We have the Underforge in where to hide the true nature of our curse. So do understand, there is no Underforge out there." He finished.

"That's my problem," I said in response. But I'd lie if I said his statement hadn't struck my mind before. Riften had plenty of deep forests to hide, and hunt, in, I can only hope the same holds true in Solitude, or wherever I'll end up afterward. "I'll figure something out."

"Take heed that you do," Kodlak said, "Even if you're no longer with us… If your true nature was to come out, it wouldn't take a clever mind to put one and two together. And a soldier can't come and go as he pleases, it might not always be so easy to… sneak off when needed. You might put us all in jeopardy.

"I said I'll figure something out, didn't I?" I snarked.

"What do you think, Farkas?" Vilkas suddenly said, surely to change the subject, "You've been quiet so far."

Farkas didn't look up as I turned for him, but remained brooding for a while where he stood.

"Fighting for someone else's cause?" he grumbled, still without looking up, "There's no honor in that."

But of course, not surprised Farkas was still pondering on the beginning of our discussion. "This isn't about honor," I told, growing tired of explaining the same damn thing over and over again, "It's about my father! Nothing else."

"Even less in dying for it," he grumbled on as he clearly ignored me.

"Get it through your skull, Farkas. This isn't hard to understand," I said as he finally looked up at me. "It's as simple as it gets: I don't have a choice."

"I'd never throw away my honor for someone else's," he said and uncrossed his arms, "that's not our way."

"Oh, by Ysmir," I let out. But before I could continue he turned to opened the double-door and left the room without saying another word, shutting the doors behind him as he abruptly left.

I didn't know how to react to that. I felt one part angry annoyance and one part… something else. Either way, it made me feel tired of it all.

"Don't judge Farkas too harshly," Vikas said, "He just doesn't want you to leave, and that's his way of showing it. He'll miss you, we all will," he finished as I looked over at him.

"Aye," Kodlak said, "Be things as they may, we are all sad to see you leave."

"Well I am leaving," I said one last time, "So I guess I should get packing—I already made preparations with a carriage for tomorrow."

"Well you don't waste time sitting around, I hear," Vilkas pitted in, "Didn't you get here this morning?"

I gave him a look that could only be described as tired. And I sighed.

"I almost envy you" Aela suddenly said."

"How so?" I asked, not knowing if I wanted her to answer.

"You're going to war," she said, with a crooked smile"Imagine the battles you'll get to fight, the opponents you'll face—I'm sure there'll be some strong ones. The tales you'll get to tell after. Who knows, you might even get to face off against Ulfric himself," she finished with a raise of her eyebrow.

"That, I doubt," Kodlak said and I looked over at him. "A man who leads his own men and woman, I doubt he'll be fighting from anywhere but behind a planning table."

"Don't be so sure," Aela told him, "Didn't you say he's a man of actions? Values the old ways? I'd think a man like that, who ¨leads his own men and woman,¨ wouldn't hesitate to stand on the battlefield himself."

"Aye," Kodlak said, "That may be. But the truly strong no longer needs to wield a blade, the mind is their weapon."

"The truly strong are the ones left standing," Aela said confidently, yet with a duller tone, as she leaned her elbow on the small table and looked away from him.

¨The truly strong are the ones left standing,¨ I repeated in my mind. Skjor used to say that.

"That too," Kodlak responded to her comment, "But don't underestimate the minds behind any and all battles, a sharp mind lais waste to many more lives than any sharp blade ever could. Tiber Septim, at the height of his power, ruled from behind a desk as his empire conquered all of Tamriel. Even Ysgramor himself would not have succeeded as he did, had he not his five-hundred companions who followed."

"But Ysgramor never fought from behind a desk, did he?" she said sarcastically as to disprove him.

"Much of history from those times are long lost to us, who is to say how things truly were."

"Anyway," I said as I no longer felt like listening to either history or any other subject we had touched on today, "I'm gonna go pack."

"Of course," Kolak said, turning his attention to me, "But one last thing…"

"By Shor what now?"

"This might be an obvious statement, youngling. But you do understand, that armor stays here."

"I know," I said as I turned for the door. Except for the obvious reasons, the design of this armor carries too many hints at who I am… what we are: the secret we need to protect. "I know," I repeated tiredly and left his chamber.

I can't say when the next one will be out, but it might take a while with all the holidays coming up.

I'll try and work on both my fics at the same time (The murder of wayrest and this one) to get them done quicker.

Until next time.
Thank you for reading and drop a comment if you feel like sharing a thought.