Fredas, 28th of Frost Fall, 4E 202
"Deirdre, can you take this up to Eorlund for maintenance?"
Deirdre's needle paused mid-stitch, while Leif lowered the tin whistle from his lips.
Ria stood with a greatsword in her hands—Vilkas's greatsword, if Deirdre wasn't mistaken. Deirdre pointed at herself.
"You want me to go to Eorlund?"
Ria nodded, glancing to the front doors where Torvar and Njada stood in their winter vests. The two were exchanging sharp, hushed words, furtively watching the stairs.
Ria leaned down and lowered her voice. "They just reopened the meadery, the one near the Stables? Black-Briar bought them out. We're making a supply run."
She grinned, setting the greatsword across the arms of another chair in the sitting area. As she did so, Athis came darting up the stairs from the dormitory, fastening the ties on his own winter vest.
"Hurry up, newblood!" Njada hissed in Ria's direction.
Ria pressed her palms together in a pleading gesture. "Vilkas told me to take it to the Skyforge, but we're on our way out. Please? Eorlund will know what to do."
"But," Deirdre protested, setting down her sewing, "am I even allowed in the Skyf—"
"Just put it in Vilkas's room when Eorlund's done with it." Ria began backing up toward the others. "And don't tell Vilkas."
Torvar pulled open the door. "Some time this era, please!" he barked, stepping outside. "You're going to get us caught!"
Ria gave Deirdre a hasty, grateful bow, before whirling and darting to the door. The four Companions exited in a flurry of cold air and jeering whispers.
"What was that all about?" Leif asked. He swung his legs from over the arm of his chair, sitting up.
Deirdre surveyed the greatsword. "Either Vilkas gave them all training they don't want to do," she guessed, "or they don't want Aela to come along and cause trouble."
Expecting him to chuckle, or at least to quirk his mouth, she looked at him. But Leif was looking at the sword without a trace of mirth on his face.
"Why does Vilkas—He can't take his own sword to the Skyforge?"
"Well. Yes, he could, but …"
But why was Leif frowning? And not looking at her?
"It's Ria's job to do Companion errands. I think they always make the newest member do it."
Leif's fingers ran distractedly over his whistle. "But I thought only Companions could go up to the Skyforge."
"But Ria asked me to."
"But you don't—" He cut himself off. He stood hastily and tucked the tin whistle into the bag on his belt. "You go, then. I'd better not intrude."
To Deirdre's dismay, he picked up his cloak from the back of his chair and quickly put it on. She stood, dumbfounded, realizing she'd expected him to help her carry the sword. She'd have to lug it all the way across the back yard and up the several steps to the hallowed Skyforge. He'd never not offered to carry something heavy for her.
"If I can go I think you can," she said uncertainly.
He shook his head. "No, I—I'd better not. Go to the Skyforge, I mean. I just remembered I have to help my mother with something, anyway."
He was focused on the clasp of his cloak as he said it, and still hadn't even glanced at her.
"Oh."
He stopped fiddling to finally look up. His eyes grew big and apologetic, and he extended a hand as he walked closer. She slid back an inch. He faltered.
"I'm sorry, I really do have to go. But I'll still see you tomorrow? At the river?"
She looked up into his hopeful, golden-brown eyes, and melted in spite of herself. She nodded grudgingly. He relaxed.
"Tomorrow then," he promised. Hesitating, he closed the gap between them and placed a soft peck on her cheek. Her breath caught—it was the first time he'd made the gesture, though she'd already extended the same to him.
Pink in the face, Leif pulled away and departed without another word.
Deirdre blinked at the suddenly empty room. She lifted a hand to her cheek, in a daze, as the thought came that if she had turned her head, just a little, she could have kissed him.
If he hadn't pulled away so soon …
Shaking herself, she fetched her own cloak from her room and bundled up, returning to the main hall to heave the greatsword into her arms. Its weight caught her off guard—she almost let the blade hit the floor. Nine Divines, Vilkas actually swung this thing around? She huffed in appreciation. She adjusted the sword in her arms and proceeded out the back door.
The snow covering the yard was powdery and pristine, not yet stomped muddy by any sparring or weapons training. Which, Deirdre was now sure, explained why the other Companions had fled to the meadery. Her boots broke a fresh line through the snow to the sheer rock wall on the north end of the yard. High atop this wall she would find the Skyforge, and the renowned Eorlund Gray-Mane who worked it. Above her and out of sight, the rhythmic clang of a hammer on metal rang out.
She turned left to access the steep, ancient stairs that would take her up to the forge. The smell of molten steel and smoggy coal dust greeted her, growing stronger the higher she climbed. When she cleared the top step, the smell hit her full-force, along with a wave of heat. Her eyes stung from the acrid air.
Across the tiled ground, a man with shoulder-length gray hair stood over an anvil, hammering away at a glowing bar of metal. He wore plain clothes very much like those of the Companions, but had a stained leather apron over them, as well as gloves.
Deirdre hesitated to interrupt. Eorlund continued hammering, until, pausing, he lifted the metal with a pair of tongs to examine it.
"Come closer, lass, or I won't be able to hear you," he called suddenly. He turned aside to dunk the still-glowing metal into a barrel of water. Steam flew, hissing, into the air.
Deirdre obeyed. She glanced surreptitiously at the various tools arranged on tables, the half-assembled weapons and armor, and the forge itself, over which the looming structure of a huge, stone eagle stood with wings outstretched. Melting snow dripped from the eagle's beak.
She snapped to attention when Eorlund said, "Now, what brings you here?"
His voice was friendlier than she had expected. Not gravelly like Skjor's, or subtly authoritative like Kodlak's. And while he looked strong, he wasn't as burly or intimidating as most of the Companions. By all accounts, he looked just like a normal Nord grandfather. Who just happened to be the greatest blacksmith in the country.
"Ria sent me with Vilkas's sword. For maintenance?"
Eorlund pulled the piece of metal up out of the water barrel, examining it once more. "Ria did, did she?"
He shook his head, smiling a bit, and set aside the metal and tongs atop one of the tables, beside what looked like an unfinished hilt. "Tradition says Ria should be the one bringing it herself. Something keeping her?"
"Erm …"
Eorlund shook his head again, holding out both hands. "Well, give it here. Probably just needs sharpening."
She relinquished the blade, and Eorlund brought it close to his face to inspect it.
"You must be the new maid they hired for Tilma," he said. He turned the sword over in his hands. "How long have you been working at Jorrvaskr?"
"About a month and a half, sir."
He stopped and blinked at her. "'Sir?' Most of 'em round here just call me Eorlund. Or Gray-Mane, especially if we're not friendly." He chuckled to himself, striding over to a grindstone and dropping onto the chair beside it. "It's only strangers call me 'sir.' Speaking of—what's your name, lass?"
She bowed just a little. "Deirdre."
He looked her up and down. "Little Deirdre, eh? Suits you." He set Vilkas's sword across his lap and removed both gloves before picking it up again, carefully feeling the blade against his fingers. "I've heard some of the talk about you, to tell the truth. That slime, Kensley, tried to get around his ban from Whiterun and throw you in prison. Is that right?"
Deirdre froze. When she took too long to answer, Eorlund looked up from the sword. She turned her face toward her boots.
"Yes, that's right," she mumbled.
"I don't mean to upset you. But I think you should know, word's spread around Whiterun about what happened, and plenty of us are about ready to boil over."
Deirdre lifted her head. Eorlund's pleasant expression had darkened, and he met her gaze solemnly.
"That Imperial bastard got away with attacking our women for too long, and the Jarl's barely done anything about it. Doesn't want to step on the Empire's toes for us, I s'pose."
He made a sound to express his disgust, and behind his beard, his jaw was tight. Deirdre's thoughts whirled. Was all of Whiterun gossiping about her? While news of Kensley being deported had been made quite public, it hadn't occurred to Deirdre that people would know about her, specifically. Were the people of Whiterun actually angry with the Jarl on her behalf? Angry enough … to advocate for the rebel cause?
That's dangerous thinking, she could almost hear Gerdur warn. Be careful what you say out loud.
Eorlund cleared his throat. "'Course, most of the Companions don't like to take sides when it comes to politics. I understand why some want to stay neutral."
Deirdre, realizing he'd misinterpreted her silence, vehemently shook her head. "No! I'm not neutral! I—"
She curled her fingers in the fabric of her cloak. Eorlund's eyes were keen on her face. Surely, after what he'd said, he was an ally. Right?
"The Empire has wronged me. More than once. They let the Thalmor take my family. I'm not neutral."
An unhappy smile crossed his face. "Aye, they've done the same to me and mine. Thalmor stole away my grandson, just like that. We can't confirm it—Well, the Gray-Manes can't confirm it. But I have a strong suspicion the Battle-Borns know more than they're letting on."
He scoffed bitterly, adjusting in his chair to better face the grindstone. He reached for the little pot strung over the grindstone and removed a tiny stopper from it, so that a thin line of water streamed onto the stone.
Deirdre, watching him, debated inquiring into that last comment. The name he'd used sounded slightly familiar, as if she'd heard it in passing. But she didn't know its significance, or if it would be strange to ask for clarification.
As Eorlund's foot situated itself on a pedal, the grindstone began to spin slowly, and Eorlund let his hand skim over the rotating surface to spread the trickling water.
"Who … Who are the Battle-Borns, again?"
His foot paused. He glanced at her before again pressing the pedal, removing his hand from the stone and lifting Vilkas's sword into place.
"Pardon, lass. I forget people from outside of Whiterun don't know all our business like the people from Whiterun." The edge of Vilkas's sword grated noisily against the rotating stone. Eorlund settled into a careful motion with it, raising his voice. "My family's the Gray-Manes. We're an old clan, ancestors going all the way back to Ysgramor's time. They say a Gray-Mane has worked at this very forge ever since it was discovered, and Jorrvaskr was built."
He nodded at the space around them as Deirdre tried to grasp the extent of what he'd just said—she ought to find some history books and catch herself up to speed.
"The Battle-Borns are the same. Old clan. Respected. Jarl counsels with both of us. And as long as I can remember, our clans have been the best of friends. Intermarriages used to be common. We followed each other into wars. Raised our children together."
He let the grindstone slow as he lifted Vilkas's sword and eyed the edge of the blade, thumbing at it.
Deirdre said, "But things are different now?"
Eorlund grimaced. "These days, the Battle-Borns have gotten fat on Imperial coin. When Ulfric rose up against the Empire, and the Thalmor started stealing us from our homes, the Battle-Borns sided with the Empire. Sent them piles of money and weapons. Preached in the streets against Ulfric. Against us."
His lip curled. Deirdre didn't know what to say. Eorlund placed Vilkas's sword back against the grindstone and got the stone spinning again.
"Suffice to say, lass, when our two clans went their separate ways, things got real cold between us. Hateful. They may have even had a hand in what happened to my grandson. And now we're a hair's width from tearing out each other's throats."
He continued sharpening Vilkas's sword, the rough scraping the only noise between them.
If the Battle-Borns were as prominent as Eorlund said, Deirdre was grateful she'd yet to encounter any of them. Hopefully this apparent gossip didn't bring any unwanted attention her way, either from the Battle-Borns or others like them.
"I'm sorry," she finally said to Eorlund. The words felt inadequate.
Some of the initial geniality returned to Eorlund's face. "I thank you. I'm sorry for your family as well, Little Deirdre. By the will of Talos, we may yet see our loved ones again. Chin up."
She swallowed, returning the nod he sent her way, and pressed a hand against the throb in her chest.
When Vilkas ran full tilt as a werewolf, it was exhilarating. He could reach speeds faster than any horse—only flight would have been faster. While running, nothing existed but the burn in his lungs, the vital thud of his heartbeat, and the earth he pushed against.
It was also exhausting. He'd made fantastic time on his trip to Falkreath and back, but as he dropped the traveling pack from his mouth and fell into human form, a wave of weariness crashed over him.
It was jarring. The drastic depletion of power. The influx of human frailties, the aches, the pains, the dulling of his senses. It was in these moments that he sympathized with Aela and Skjor the most. Understood why they still called the beastblood a gift.
He looked down at his weak, fleshy hands, curling and uncurling his human fingers.
"It feels like a gift now. But wait until you're my age. Wait until thoughts of the afterlife begin to disturb you. Will you be a plaything of Hircine, a beast, in his eternal hunting grounds? Or will you join the great warriors in their hall of honor? Sovngarde calls to me, pup. I would like to answer it. If I can."
Putting Kodlak's words from his mind, Vilkas stooped to retrieve his boots and outer clothes from his pack. He dressed himself before stepping out of his hiding place and onto the road leading past the Whiterun Stables.
When he entered Jorrvaskr, it was to find a wrestling match taking place in the sparring pit, between Ria and Njada. Torvar, Athis, and Aela were cheering stupidly, while the old man and Skjor watched on. He was too tired to ask the whelps if they'd taken advantage of their break in contracts and trained like he'd told them to. Ria, in particular, needed to work on her swordplay. He would have to get after them tomorrow.
He found his greatsword waiting atop the chest at the foot of his bed, shiny and sharp-edged. Good. At least he knew one task got done today.
He cleaned himself up in the washroom and put on a fresh tunic before heading back upstairs, following the aroma of supper. His stomach growled. It wouldn't hurt to see if he could steal a pre-supper snack.
When he walked into the hall that led to the kitchen, he saw, of all things, his brother sitting on the floor, just beside the kitchen doorway. Farkas had his back to the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest, as if to prevent whoever was in the kitchen from seeing his legs. He looked up at Vilkas.
"Fark—"
But Farkas darted a finger in front of his lips, eyes widening. Vilkas froze mid-step.
He heard it now. Someone in the kitchen was singing quietly. Deirdre.
Farkas, still holding a finger to his lips, beckoned him closer. Vilkas ensured his footsteps made no noise. Farkas nodded, pointing toward the kitchen.
Vilkas shook his head as if to say, "Are you kidding me?"
Farkas nodded again and leaned his head back against the wall.
Vilkas stood next to him and listened for a moment, before he thought, What the hell, and sat next to his brother on the floor. Deirdre started a new song, her voice ringing with a sweet, almost inhuman clarity. Vilkas recognized both songs as popular love ballads.
He scoffed softly. Having the ginger kid around really did seem to be good for her.
He copied Farkas and leaned his head back against the wall, wondering why Deirdre was keeping her voice low. She probably thought she was singing too quietly for anyone to hear. And perhaps, no human ears in the hallway would have been able to listen properly.
As the savory, warm aroma of cooking food wrapped around Vilkas like a blanket, Deirdre's song acted as a sedative, and he soon found himself drowsy. Farkas's shoulder grew heavy against his as if he, too, were succumbing.
They should find a way to put this in a bottle and sell it, Vilkas thought. She'd done the same thing to him when he'd been sick, and she'd started humming. He'd wanted to believe it was just the medicine that had made him relax, but he couldn't think that now.
He was nudged back to wakefulness when someone appeared in the corner of his eye. He and Farkas turned their heads in unison.
Aela blinked at them from the end of the hall.
"Wha—"
They each held a finger to their lips. Aela snapped her mouth shut. She padded silently over, tipping an ear toward the kitchen.
The twins waited. Aela, posture going slack, leaned against the wall and slid to the ground on Vilkas's other side. The twins relaxed back into a stupor.
It could only have been a few minutes later, but by the time Tilma entered the hall, Farkas and Aela had only the most tenuous of grasps on consciousness. Vilkas was being crushed as they leaned on him from either side. They hardly stirred at Tilma's presence.
The old woman looked at Vilkas. Looked at the others. Her thin lips curved in amusement.
She chuckled as she stepped over Aela's outstretched legs, patting Farkas's head as she strolled into the kitchen. Deirdre's song stopped.
"Looks like this is just about ready," Tilma bellowed, jarring the others awake.
"Yes, could you grab the bread? I'm ready to carry this out."
The three on the floor stayed where they were, until the sound of movement in the kitchen shot them to their feet. When Tilma and Deirdre emerged from the hallway carrying supper, Njada had won her wrestling match, and Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela were sitting casually at the table.
Supper was good. As Tilma and Deirdre cleared the table, Vilkas reflected on the comfortable warmth of the main hall. He went to his room to fetch a small block of wood and his carving knife. Claiming the best chair in the sitting area, he settled in and began whittling while the other Companions engaged in conversation, some in the sitting area, some remaining at the dining table. Vilkas fell into a meditative quiet.
He didn't notice Deirdre in the chair beside him until she spoke.
"What are you making?" she asked.
Vilkas held up the rough carving. "A dragon."
She tilted her head. "Is this going to be the face?" she asked, indicating with her finger.
Vilkas grunted an affirmative.
Deirdre shook her head. "The neck should be longer," she said, as if this were common knowledge. "And the snout." She held out her thumb and forefinger, placing it against the wood to show what she meant.
He stared at her. At his lack of response, she looked up.
"Just how many dragons have you seen?"
Deirdre withdrew her hand. Vilkas kept staring until she, avoiding his eyes, broke the silence.
"Technically just the one."
"What does that mean?"
She fiddled with her fingers. "It's hard to explain."
He waited. She inhaled and sighed. "It sounds crazy. But I've dreamed about them, ever since Helgen. I think—well, I've never spoken to another survivor, but I think seeing the dragon … did something? To make me dream about them."
The hair on the back of Vilkas's neck rose. He recalled getting a similar feeling, once, just before the archery tournament. She had said something about dragons being sentient.
He adjusted his grip on his knife, using it to shave down a bit of what would have been the dragon's body. To make the neck longer. Deirdre watched him as each movement of his knife made it increasingly clear he was accounting for her correction.
At length, she said, "I wanted to ask you something."
"All right."
"I want to go visit the children in Riften. The orphanage said they allow visitors upon request."
He glanced at her. "Is that a question?"
"I don't want to go to Riften alone. You said it's not safe."
"It's not."
She leaned a bit closer over the arm of her chair, threading her fingers together. "The next time you or Aela or Farkas get a contract in Riften, can I come with you?"
Vilkas blew a puff of air over his carving, brushing off a shaving with his thumb. "You specifically want to go with one of us three?"
"Yes, if you would be willing to take me."
She had raised her clasped hands to her chin, fixing him with wide, pleading blue eyes.
"You can drop the puppy-dog look. It doesn't work on me."
She pouted. "But can I come with you?"
"Why me or Farkas or Aela? What if Athis gets a Riften job?"
She considered. "I suppose I could go with Athis. I've just known you and Aela the longest. And Farkas isn't scary."
Vilkas's knife paused. He pretended to think about where he should make the next notch, but was really puzzling out how she had decided to place him on the same level as Aela and Farkas. He was almost insulted not to be considered "scary," as she'd surely meant to imply about Skjor and Njada. Maybe he'd lost that distinction during the whole sickness debacle. Or had it happened sooner?
"Fine. Farkas and Aela would be fine with it too. You tell them."
She perked up. When her hand touched his bicep, he looked at it.
"Thank you. Really."
She stood, and he watched her walk to Farkas and Aela at the dining table. Feeling someone's gaze, he noticed Kodlak sitting in another chair with a book in his hands. The old man had a little smile on his face.
"What?"
Kodlak's smile widened. "You've made a friend."
Vilkas rolled his eyes. He slouched lower in his chair and resumed carving his long-necked dragon.
Author's Note:
I have tweaked some family trees for the sake of this story. You may not have noticed, but in case you did...I did ;)