Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for imagined violence and fantastic racism.

…

Blade

The run through Bleak Falls Barrow was no more or less troublesome than any other job in a draugr-infested tomb for Irkand and Farkas – and that alone was enough to raise the Redguard's hackles. He'd dutifully taken a charcoal rubbing of the Dragonish inscription in the sanctum of the barrow and now was sitting in the Sleeping Giant Inn, Riverwood's only drinking hole, trying to puzzle out the Dragonstone. It was a map of draconic burials, he knew that much, but the script on it was runic and he couldn't read the modern version, let alone something that dated from just past the Dragon War. Why did Nords have to go out of their way to be hard to understand?

This was the first time he'd been to the inn because normally he chose to make the journey to Jorrvaskr, no matter how late it was. But his bones were aching thanks to the cold, damp conditions of the draugr and the frost enchantment on that wretched king-draugr's blade. So he and Farkas had hired the room for tonight and would return in the morning to collect a well-deserved reward.

Orgnar, the surly barkeep, was as lousy a cook as he was curt with words. Irkand's mouth watered at the thought of a rare venison steak rubbed with salt and elf's ear and seared on Tilma's iron griddle. He should have pushed Lia to apprentice to the woman instead of relying on Balgruuf, but the rabbit had escaped the coop and there was no reason to waste time on regrets.

So tonight was a lumpy straw mattress, indifferent mead and three-day vegetable stew and tomorrow he would go hunting with his husband before returning to Whiterun.

Farkas seemed happy enough with his bowl of stew and mead but then, Irkand's husband accepted life's little problems with the same placid calm as he demonstrated when Arcadia sewed his wounds shut. Many attributed this to his so-called lack of intelligence when, like Irkand, it was really the wisdom to save one's temper for the important matters. Vilkas, foul-tempered and curt, wasted so much energy that it was a surprise he wasn't always exhausted.

"You should trust her." The big Nord's words were soft and calm as he dipped stale bread into the stew to get all the juices from the bowl. "She survived lots on her own without you."

Irkand sighed. "I don't doubt my niece's ability to survive," he pointed out. "I just fear she's taking on more than she can handle in order to prove herself to her mother. And maybe the memory of our family."

"She'll do it or she won't. Until she can't do it, let her be." Farkas finished his meal and set the bowl aside with a burp.

It was good advice Farkas was giving, as good as it was the day nearly six years ago when Lia stumbled into Whiterun under the influence of the Madgoddess. Yet Irkand was struck, every time he saw his niece, how much he'd failed her – and by extension his family.

He'd avoided thinking about what Lia implied the last time they spoke. Their bloodline, or lack thereof, was of no import to the Companion and hadn't been when he was a Blade. Julius Martin had refused to claim the throne of his father – why pursue an uncomfortable chair when true power lay in the ability to work unseen? Arius had apparently felt otherwise and looking back, Irkand could see the pattern in the deaths the Grand Master had ordered.

It was a bitter thing to admit that you'd been blind. Irkand prided himself on looking at the world with a clear gaze, understanding the mix of both honour and pragmatism that shaped a hero of Jorrvaskr. In these days of blood and fire, he wondered if his understanding was really that complete.

As if the gods decided to underscore his failings, the inn door opened, letting in a chill breeze and the second to last woman on Tamriel Irkand wanted to see. Delphine Revanche was still small, fine-boned and sharp-featured… with the fucking dai-katana she favoured strapped to her back. Her greying blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of the neck and her leather armour was well-worn but in excellent condition.

"Farkas, honey," Irkand murmured into his husband's ear. "Do you remember me mentioning the woman who left me for my brother?"

"Yeah," rumbled the werewolf. "Figured I owed her a thanks 'cause it meant you were free for me."

Irkand found himself laughing sharply. His mate always did have a way of putting things into perspective.

Of course, Delphine's eyes found him immediately despite the gloom and a flash of frustration crossed her delicate features. "What do you want, Irkand?" she demanded in Akaviri as she stormed up to him.

"Good food and drink, none of which I'll find here," Irkand responded dryly.

"This is my inn," the Breton groused. "Did Lia send you?"

"No, I finished a job and alas, it was too dark to press on towards Whiterun, so here I am." Irkand leaned back in his seat, letting the light shine on his wolf-emblazoned cuirass. "Farkas, honey, this is my brother's widow Delphine. Delphine, this is my husband Farkas."

"Thanks for leaving Irkand for Rustem so I could marry him," the big Nord said cheerfully as Delphine's eyes narrowed.

"You. Me. My room now," Delphine commanded. No doubt it was for private conversation, but Irkand was in a mood to twit his former lover.

"Is your bed big enough for the three of us?" he asked mildly.

"Oh for-. No!" Delphine scowled and then looked at the Dragonstone on the table. "I'll take that."

"No, my dear. Farengar hired me to collect it and present it to him I shall." Irkand didn't bother hiding the grin on his face now.

"I hired him to hire-." Delphine cut off the sentence, lips twisting in disgust. "Do your vows mean nothing? Lia, I can understand – she never took them, even if she's refused to do so now – but you…"

"My vows as a Companion of Jorrvaskr matter more than oaths to a dead order," Irkand said flatly.

"Our oaths as Blades mean we are to kill all the dragons!" Delphine countered.

"I'm fairly sure service to the Dragonborn comes first," Irkand pointed out mildly. "If they should appear and be honourable, I shall consider how best to fulfil that oath, so long as blind obedience isn't involved. I did that once, Delphine, and they called me the Executioner. Never again."

"You think a few years as a Companion make you honourable?" Delphine snorted sceptically. "No, Irkand – once a killer, always a killer."

Her words struck to the core of him, the part that feared no matter what he did with the Companions, he would still be the blindly obedient assassin who killed without conscience or mercy. Irkand imagined the smooth slide of his tanto from its sheath in his boot, driven upwards into the pale flesh of Delphine's unprotected throat, crimson blood splattering like rain to stain the rough floorboards of this wretched little inn. Large warm fingers wrapped around his forearm and he looked to meet Farkas' quicksilver eyes, sympathetic but warning.

"Maybe so," Irkand conceded to the Breton. "But I have a family again, which is rather more than I'll say for you."

"Enough, both of you," Farkas said in crude but understandable Akaviri. "What's done is done. But Delphine-"

The werewolf fixed the Blade with a chilling stare that reminded Irkand that he was a true predator.

"-You insult a Companion's honour again, you answer to us. That clear?"

The woman stared the bigger Nord down and Irkand bent to reach for his tanto should she push the issue.

"Get the fuck out of my inn, both of you," she ordered. "If I see either of you, I'll bury you."

Irkand smiled, the one that always made his enemies flinch. His former sister-in-law didn't shy away but she definitely looked a bit warier. "I'll make it known that you no longer wish the Companions' business, Delphine. Or our services, for that matter."

He and Farkas rose to their feet, taking the Dragonstone with them. Delphine watched them, hand on her belt-dagger, and Irkand allowed himself a wolfish snarl as the predator within revealed itself.

Perhaps he was a predator but this woman was no friend to his pack.

It had the desired effect – Delphine went pale and stepped back – and Irkand bowed mockingly before he and Farkas went into the night.

The Blades were his past – the Companions would be his future.

…

Delphine poured himself a cup of mead and went into the cellar to think.

Irkand was a werewolf like the rest of the Companions. Until now, Delphine didn't give a damn, but she knew very well the implied threat in the Redguard's snarl. The best of the Blades, the one she'd respected despite choosing Rustem over him for dynastic reasons, was now a beast of Hircine and still thought himself following his own path. No, Irkand was still a killer, only now one who could turn into a furry mass of fangs and muscle.

I wonder if Lia knows? That the woman had no respect for her bloodline was patently obvious and perhaps a little understandable – Arius was a bad politician despite his manipulative abilities. Growing up sheltered in Cloud Ruler did that to a man. Lia had obviously lived a hard life before coming to Skyrim – and to give her credit, she was at least trying to find the Dragonborn, even if cowardice seemed to be her flaw.

She downed the mead, the only one she'd allow herself, and eyed the few books she'd collected on the Dragonborn in the corner. Best case would be a big Nord who was happy to do what Delphine advised – worst case would be someone who considered the Blades as enemies.

One thing Delphine did respect about Arius was that he worked on a 'need to know' basis. Irkand knew how to kill a dragon and Lia obviously had an idea of how the Dragonborn could defeat Alduin, but it was Delphine, the Second Blade and general of the order, who knew what to do with a dangerous Dragonborn. The Blades planned for every contingency of the Prophecy, including a tyrant with the Voice who was a danger to the world once Alduin was dead.

The Breton decided to try and convert Lia to her cause. The cook was at least trying, whereas Irkand had brushed off his duties to the Blades. Give her a nice safe haven and Delphine's stepdaughter would no doubt do almost anything.

But Irkand… Irkand was a danger.

Delphine reached for quill, ink and paper. It was time the Companions were called to account for their façade of honour. And she knew just the people to do it.