The walk up to Jorrvaskr was much less painful than it had been the night before, if louder. The few that actually stopped her to welcome her back or thank her felt no need to ask her for the details. Apparently, the people of Whiterun weren't quite as nosy as her Jorrvaskr family. The thought brought a smile to her face as she climbed up the stone steps again.
"Lysanor."
She looked up. Njada looked as displeased with her as ever, arms folded across her chest and eyes narrowed. Lysanor had long since come to the conclusion that that was her default expression.
"Njada. It's good to see you."
"And you," Njada said, her lip curling as if the lie was bitter on her tongue. "Didn't think you were going to come back alive."
"I didn't either," Lysanor replied honestly.
Njada grunted by way of response. Lysanor made her way past her to the doors of Jorrvaskr, offering one last, tight smile before slipping inside. The hall wasn't nearly as quiet as it had been in the morning; voices assaulted her ears the second she stepped in.
"…last night," Vilkas was saying.
"She did? I don't believe it! Where is she?"
A grin spread over her face. There he was.
"Farkas!" she called. He whirled around, what little color there had been in his face draining away. She beamed and waved. Before she knew it, he was on the other end of the hall, scooping her up in his arms and crushing her to his metal-plated chest. She scrabbled in vain at his armored shoulders for purchase, finally settling for patting his back as best she could.
"I thought we were never going to see you again," he said into her shoulder.
"I know," she grunted. "Can you let me go?"
"Right. Yes." He pulled back, holding her at arm's length and looking her over. "Are you okay? You look…" He trailed off, clearly not wanting to be the one to break the bad news to her.
She grinned up at him. "I know, I know. I look terrible," she agreed, waving her hand. "But I'm fine. How are you? When did you get back?"
"Just a little while ago. Haven't even been to my room." He eyed her critically. "When did you get back?"
"Late last night. As soon as I got-oh!" She winced as the door swung open, clipping her in the shoulder.
"Careful, Njada," Farkas said sternly.
"Shouldn't stand in the doorway," Njada grumbled, walking past without a second glance. They watched her go.
"She's right, you know," Lysanor said. Farkas turned back to her. "You still need to go to your room, right?"
"Aye."
"I'll come with you. Come on."
Farkas frowned in concern, watching her painful movements. "Here, let me help," he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder. "Do you want me to carry you?"
Lysanor laughed and shook her head. "Don't you dare."
The living quarters were mostly abandoned, save for Njada unpacking her things in her room. Not much of a surprise, really. Before the dragon attack at Whiterun the year before, and the chain of events that had swept her up after it, Skjor had kept everyone on a tight training schedule. We have to be prepared, he had insisted when the whelps (including her) groaned for a break. For what, he neglected to explain.
The door to Farkas's room swung open and he helped her hobble inside. He stopped by one of the heavy wooden chairs around his desk, his hand slipping from her shoulder, but she chose to collapse on his bed instead. He laughed.
"You know, sister," he said, slipping his shield off of his back and setting it down. "That is my bed."
"I don't see you using it," Lysanor muttered into his pillow. After a moment of contemplation, she added, "Brother."
Farkas grinned. He grabbed a bottle of mead from the shelf, twisted it open and collapsed into his chair.
"Alright, tell me everything."
"Don't you already know everything?" Lysanor tried to shift onto her side to look at him, but the burnt skin on her ribs screamed in protest. She sat up, wheezing. "Seems like everyone in town knows what's been going on these past few months."
"Well…yeah. Word's been spreading like magefire." He watched her, his eyes narrowing a little. "So it's all true? The dragons, the Elder Scroll…everything?"
Lysanor nodded slowly.
"Gods." He scratched at his short, coarse beard, considering this. "Vilkas was so sure you wouldn't amount to anything."
"Vilkas doesn't think any of us will amount to anything, though."
Farkas laughed. For someone who apparently loved his brother so dearly, he certainly enjoyed jokes at his expense. He put the mead down and set to work pulling off his gauntlets, lips curved up in an affectionate smile. They were both quiet for a moment.
"You never did write me, you know," Farkas said, suddenly accusatory. She glanced up at him, startled. "Even after all that promising."
"What promising?"
Farkas's voice rose a few pitches in a very poor imitation of Lysanor. "'I'll definitely write you, Farkas! Swear to the Gods! You can count on me…'"
"I never said that!" she insisted, laughing despite herself. "I said I would try. I didn't have all that much time for writing letters when I was off hunting dragons, you know." She paused. "And I don't sound like that, either."
"Yes, you do."
She threw his pillow at him. He swatted it away without even looking up, shooting her a triumphant smirk. After a moment, he added gruffly, "I missed you."
"Not as much as I missed you." He scoffed, but she was being sincere. She smiled at him warmly, watching him flex his long fingers once they were free of the armor.
"Well, either way," he declared, combing his hair out of his face with his fingers, "Glad you're back. And that you still have all your limbs."
"I am too." Lysanor looked him over. Even though he didn't seem anywhere close to as battered as she had been when she came back to Whiterun, his long, dark hair was tangled, his scarred face was smeared with blood and grime, and his shoulders were hunched. He must have needed some time to recover. She rose to her feet, wavering a little. "I'll get out of your hair."
"You can stay if you want," he offered, but she waved it off. "Well, let me help you, then."
She held up both hands, palms out, as he approached her. "Do not pick me up," she warned. Once, before she was a member of the Circle, Lysanor had broken her leg in a bear trap they found in a bandit hideout. Farkas's solution was to throw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry her back to Jorrvaskr. She had never quite forgiven him for the dignity that had been stripped of her that day. She wasn't sure if he would try to do the same when they only had to walk a few yards, not a few miles, but hey—warriors were unpredictable.
He smiled. "I won't."
By the time they got back to her quarters, even Njada had disappeared. Farkas tsked and murmured something about not wanting to leave her there alone.
"I'll be fine. I'm just going to lie down for a while." She sat heavily in her bed, rubbing her eyes. "Wait for everything to stop hurting."
"If you're sure." He leaned over and patted her shoulder. "Sleep well."
"Right," Lysanor laughed. "Thanks."
Farkas gave her a wolfish grin, bidding her a quiet farewell before ducking out of the room. She watched him leave and let her eyes drift closed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if she should have been training. It certainly wasn't very warrior-like to be lying around while the others worked. Just for a day, she reasoned to herself. All she needed was a day, and she'd be back to work.
Of course, it wasn't just a day. The wounds that Alduin had left her with took their time healing, and even when the worst had healed up and she could move around well enough, she was still incredibly, painfully exhausted. At most, she could muster up the energy to get across town to Breezehome and back to Jorrvaskr before collapsing back in bed. Images of her as Skyrim's hero were still fresh in everyone's mind, it seemed, because even Skjor, who had never let anyone go a few days without a training session, let her be. Vilkas stopped by her quarters one day, a first for him, to drop off a drink and some sort of sleeping potion. "Just get some sleep," he'd said, "and you'll be back on your feet before you know it."
Well, he was right, if by "before you know it" he had meant "in a few weeks." For the legendary savior of the land, she was really quite useless. As she waited for her energy to return, she ended up recounting the stories of her adventures to whoever came by Jorrvaskr and occasionally helping Tilma with the chores. Though she grew even less fond of the story of Alduin and the Elder Scroll with every new telling, within a few days everyone else at Jorrvaskr had become intimately familiar with it and told more of the tale than she did. (Farkas, who had a penchant for storytelling, particularly enjoyed embellishing the story for Vignar and Brill when they dropped by.) The other warriors grew quite used to her loafing around Jorrvaskr all day long; when she washed up and began putting on her cleaned armor instead of plain clothes one morning, Ria looked absolutely astounded, as if she had never seen her in armor before.
"Are you going on a job today, too?" she asked, watching her clasp her gauntlets into place.
Lysanor shook her head. "No, but I think I'll go train out in the yard. I've been sitting still for too long."
"Hm," Ria murmured. Lysanor looked up.
"Something wrong?"
"You still seem kind of…ill," she said, crossing her arms. "You're all pale and you look exhausted. I don't know if you should be fighting yet."
"You worry too much, Ria. I'm fine." Lysanor stood and stretched her arms above her head. "I need to do something. I've been useless since I got back to Whiterun."
"You've been healing! That doesn't make you useless," Ria argued.
"No, she has a point," Njada piped up from her bed, where she was fastening her own armor. "She has been useless."
"See? Njada understands." Lysanor laughed at Ria's expression. "I really am fine. I'll feel better when I get something done."
Ria still seemed dissatisfied, but she didn't protest when Lysanor stood and left the bedroom. Before she stepped into the hall upstairs, she took a moment to stretch her limbs more fully, make sure everything was in working order. Those dragonfire burns had definitely not healed without a scar like Arcadia had promised; they still ached in that terrible, dull way only burns could when she moved wrong. No matter. If she waited for those to heal, too, she would never be back on the battlefield. She walked up the stairs.
The hall itself was rather quiet, as it usually was in the mornings. Most of the warriors had already left on jobs, or were outside in the yard training. The only ones left were Farkas, Aela and Skjor, standing by the windows and talking quietly. They turned to her as she approached.
"Lysanor," Skjor greeted. "Good to see you up and about."
She offered them a faint smile. "Does anyone want to spar with me?" she asked, gesturing to the axe at her hip. "I haven't trained in a while."
"I will," Farkas volunteered, already reaching for the huge sword strapped to his back.
"No. Not you," she said sternly. Skjor had always said that Farkas had "all the strength of Ysgramor," and he really wasn't kidding. Lysanor wasn't mentally prepared for that sort of beating.
Aela laughed. "Cruel. I like it," she said, grinning at a disappointed-looking Farkas. "Come, sister. Let's see if you're still any good." She grabbed her shield, strapping it to her forearm as she pushed open the door to the yard.
As expected, there were already a few people training outside with the dummies. Farkas and Skjor trailed after the women, watching expectantly as they took their places and drew their weapons. Aela had chosen a rather unintimidating shortsword. Not a surprise, really. Vilkas had once remarked that Aela had never wielded anything larger than a dagger. She could, however, deal more damage with the damn thing than was fair.
"Nice axe," Aela commented, nodding at the light weapon in her hand. "What's it made out of?"
"Dragon bone."
Aela looked shocked for a moment. Then she laughed. "Impressive. Maybe you can get me some dragon bone arrows," she said.
"Find me some more dragon bone and I'll see what I can do."
Aela grinned. "Ready?" she asked, tightening her grip on the blade.
Lysanor stretched her arms out one last time. "Ready."
In her time away from home, Lysanor had grown a little too used to battling things that were much bigger than her. She almost didn't remember how to fight someone her own size. Someone like Farkas would have charged long ago, leaving her to back up and try to avoid as many blows as possible. Aela, instead, eyed her warily from behind her shield, circling around her, watching her movements. She felt like prey.
Aela was the first to strike. She crept forward, shield still up, knife held aloft, slow enough that Lysanor was certain she was waiting to defend first. Then she lunged. There was no time to think-Lysanor instinctively flung her shield up, the screech of metal against metal filling the air. Aela's next strike sliced the air inches from the tip of her nose. She staggered back, gasping.
"Not the face!" she grunted, keeping her shield high and tightening her grip on her axe. Aela cackled.
Lysanor sidestepped the next few quick lunges, looking for an opening. She found one as Aela aimed another swipe at her face, probably just to spite her (Aela was like that), and lost her footing for a moment. There was her chance. Before Aela could recover from the stumble, she flung her shield arm out with as much strength as she could muster, the metal smashing into her opponent's armored chest with a heavy thunk. Aela fell to her knees and wheezed. Past the roar of blood thundering in her ears, Lysanor faintly registered whooping coming from their spectators.
Lysanor waited for Aela to stagger back to her feet before she swung. They were a flurry of metal, of blades and limbs and shields, each swipe of a weapon quickly deflected. Lysanor was beginning to worry they were too evenly matched for the battle to really go anywhere. Instead of throwing up her shield to block Aela's next advance, Lysanor took the painful slice to her uncovered upper arm and responded with a sharp swing of her own. The impact of the much heavier blow sent Aela staggering back a few steps. The huntress seemed to be seized by a sudden fury, springing up with almost inhuman speed and swiping viciously. Lysanor fell back, overwhelmed, and bashed her in the face with her shield.
They both backed up, breathing hard and eyeing each other over their shields. Ignoring the shouts from the sidelines, ("She can't take much more! Go on, finish her!") Lysanor readied her shield as Aela advanced. She deflected the first few strikes, and when it seemed like she was about to back off, lowered her shield. Instead of backing up, Aela rushed forward, hurling her shield into Lysanor's chest with the force of her entire body behind it. Lysanor flew into the cold stone wall at the back of the yard and pain thundered through her body. She fell to her knees, dropping her weapon and putting her hands up.
"Enough," she wheezed. "Enough."
"Not bad, sister! You almost got me there." Aela set down her shield and extended her hand. Lysanor took a moment to catch her breath, then took her hand, dragging herself back to her feet. "Never underestimate someone with a small weapon. You have to be confident to wield one of these," she added, spinning the knife between her fingers.
"Or weak," Lysanor muttered, grinning through the tears.
"Losers shouldn't criticize, Lysa."
"Good job, both of you." The men crossed the yard to them, Skjor nodding approvingly. "That was good shield work. Njada would be proud. You two have earned a drink." Njada? Proud? Not a chance. She resisted the urge to speak up, but hung back and gave Farkas a meaningful look as they walked back to the porch. He understood the joke before she had a chance to say it and laughed softly.
"That looked like fun," he remarked. "You should have let me spar with you."
"I don't think so. I would be crying right now if I had." Lysanor lowered herself to a bench, watching Aela and Skjor head back inside. Aela gave her a wink and a smile before she disappeared into the hall.
"From the looks of it, I would be the one crying. You've really improved."
She beamed, puffing her chest out a little despite herself. She knew he was just trying to make her smile—that was just how Farkas was—but coming from the man who had taught her almost everything she knew about battle, it was still high praise. "Thank you." She gestured for a bottle of mead sitting next to him, which he passed over. After taking a sip, she added, "I got a lot of practice. When I was gone, I mean."
"Of course you did. Slaying dragons and all that." He grinned fondly when she looked up at him. "I keep telling Skjor that the whelps won't learn until we send them on jobs, but he doesn't listen. Says they need to train more."
"Is that why Torvar always looks so angry with you?"
"That's it."
Lysanor sighed, stretched her arms behind her head. "Well[AB1] , if Skjor's got his mind set on it, there must be a reason. Better just let it be."
"Not like I have a choice."
They smiled at one another, both quiet for a moment. Now that she thought about it, Skjor had been acting a little strange lately. When she was new to the Companions, he was always quick to give advice, quick to criticize, considerably more talkative than the rest of the Circle—except, maybe, for opinionated Aela. The past few weeks he had seemed so...distracted. He had only spoken to her a few times since she had gotten back, and never extensively. Strange.
She stood, stretching out and scratching at the oozing wound on her arm. Skjor wasn't about to give up any secrets—no point in worrying about it. "I'm going to shoot some[AB2] arrows," she said. Farkas looked up at her. "Want to check my stance for me?"
"Sure." She waited for him to set his mead back down and stand, then they walked back to the yard together.
As it turned out, the training wasn't quite as bad as she remembered. Farkas, as expected, did not hesitate to criticize her stance (which, admittedly, wasn't very good) and kick her feet a few times to get her to straighten it out, but that was more or less the worst of it. The rest of the daylight trickled past as she practiced with the dummies against the back wall, or the occasional person that stepped out into the yard. Her limbs ached and she could already feel bruises forming from where Aela had thrown her into the wall, but it certainly could have been worse.
She finally decided it was time to head back inside when Torvar dealt a nasty blow to her ribs and her burnt side started to feel like it was about to melt off. It was starting to get dark, anyway, and the others had long since left. She wiped the sweat out of her eyes, sheathed her weapon, and dragged herself back into the hall.
For once, the place seemed comfortably full. Farkas had been right—Skjor really didn't want many of them leaving Jorrvaskr. Even Kodlak had ventured up from his quarters, where he spent most of his time nowadays, to sup with the others. Lysanor stretched out her aching limbs and dropped into an empty seat next to Aela.
"Have fun out there?" Aela asked, looking over her tired, dirty form.
"It was nice to do something again."
"I'll bet. You seemed pretty bored these past few weeks." Lysanor made a noise of agreement around her mouthful of mead. Aela smiled. "Speaking of doing things," she said, leaning back in her chair, "since you're feeling better, I figured you might want to get some work done. I've left some letters from clients on your desk for you to sort through."
"Aela," she groaned. "Aren't there any jobs I can go on instead?"
"Nothing that isn't better suited to one of the whelps," Aela shrugged.
Lysanor sighed. "Alright. I'll get it done," she mumbled. The honor of being a member of the Circle was worth the pain of going through stacks of jobs, she supposed. Aela nodded, a funny sort of look on her face. They ate in relative silence, and as the others began to wander out of the hall, Aela spoke up again.
"Lysa," she said quietly. Her eyes were focused on the other end of the room. Lysanor followed her gaze, frowning. When Kodlak's form disappeared down the stairs into the living quarters, Aela turned to look at her.
"Now that I think about it," she murmured, "there might be a job for you. If you're still interested."
"Aye?"
Aela shifted a bit closer to her, her voice still low. "Do you remember the Silver Hand?"
"Of course." The Companions and the Silver Hand had been at war for decades, though the details of the feud were lost to Lysanor. All she knew was that the Silver Hand had had a personal vendetta against the Circle for a long time and, over the years, had stolen both valuables and lives from the Companions. Lysanor's own Trial had been to retrieve a stolen fragment of Wuuthrad from a Silver Hand lair. The trip, her first encounter with a real, live werewolf, was nothing if not memorable. It would be difficult to forget the first, and only, time she had seen Farkas turn, or the way he ripped the werewolf hunters apart. "Why?"
"Well, rumor has it they've taken over that old fort at Gallows Rock, over in Eastmarch. Skjor and I were planning on going in there and…cleaning the place out." She raised a brow at her. "Want to come along?"
Lysanor chewed on her lip. "Hm," she murmured. "Have you gone over this with Kodlak?"
"Do I need to?" Aela said defensively, her voice a little too loud. The twins paused in their conversation to look over at her. She lowered her voice again. "You worry about Kodlak too much, Lysa. You haven't been hunting in so long." Her eyes flickered over her face, a slight frown furrowing her brows. She sighed. "What the old man doesn't know won't hurt him, you know."
"Fine," Lysanor said finally, her gaze dropping. "I'll come."
"Excellent." Aela leaned back, a triumphant smile curving up her lips. "Those slimy little bastards are always such easy prey."
"When are do we leave?"
"When Skjor tells us to," she shrugged. "I'll let you know. Stay prepared."
"Alright." Lysanor slowly stood, her knees cracking painfully. "I'll get to those letters."
Aela smiled. "Good night."
She bade Aela goodnight, walking around the table to get to the stairs. On her way, she passed by the twins, who were engaged in a heated, quiet argument. They both fell silent when she neared.
"Lysanor," Vilkas said, nodding to her. "Heard you gave Aela quite a beating today."
"I'm the one that got a beating," Lysanor confessed. Vilkas chuckled. He must have been in a good mood—it was strange for him to smile at her.
"Well, it's always good to get some practice."
"Lysa, I left some letters from clients on your desk," Farkas added. "Go through them when you get the time."
Lysanor groaned in her head. "I will." She hurriedly bade them farewell and backed out of the room before anyone could try and give her more notes to work through. Though there were several others milling around downstairs, her own room was quiet and dark. Njada and Ria, it seemed, wouldn't be back for a while. At least the quiet would help her work. She felt around the darkness for the lantern, lit it with a few sparks from the tips of her fingers, and carefully set it down. She sighed quietly when she caught sight of her desk. The stack of papers next to her satchel was going to take all night to go through. She would need to read through the requests, sort them by area and type, then drop them off to the other members of the Circle—because, as the newest member, she didn't really dole out the jobs herself. She felt a bit like she had when she was the newest recruit, scrambling around Whiterun and running errands for the Circle to gain their approval. Then, she had been the whelp of the Companions. Now she was the whelp of the Circle.
No matter. The monotony was welcome after the chaos of the past few months. The fate of the world wasn't resting on her shoulders this time. She unfastened her armor and lifted it off of her, throwing it onto her bed, and kicked off her boots. She drew the lantern closer to her, cracked her knuckles and picked up the first folded note.
By the time the written requests were sorted into four neat little piles, one for each other member of the Circle, she had long since lost track of time. Ria and Njada were still missing, so it couldn't have been too late, but the men were fast asleep in the adjacent room. Lysanor stood and stretched, slowly. Might as well drop the things off now and get them off her hands. Careful not to make too much noise, she crept out of the room and into the hall.
The next door to the left led to Skjor and Aela's bedrooms. She raised a hand to knock at Skjor's door, but paused with her fist still hanging in the air. She so hated bothering Skjor in his quarters, especially at night, when there was a good chance that Aela was in there with him. Perhaps it would be better to come back in the morning.
But Skjor wasn't even at Jorrvaskr half of the time. Who knew when she would be able to catch him next? She sighed, gritted her teeth and knocked on the door. There was a brief silence, then he called, "Come in."
She gently turned the doorknob with her free hand and poked her head inside. He was alone, sitting at his desk before a long piece of parchment with quill in hand. She crept in.
"Good evening, Lysanor." He set the quill in the inkwell, leaning back in his chair. "What do you need?"
"I have these letters for you," she murmured, setting them down on his desk.
"Oh, you went through them?" He picked them up, absently flipping through the pieces of paper. "Kodlak will be delighted." He gave her a small, wry smile. "Anything good?"
"Not really. An escaped prisoner in Hjaalmarch, some stolen family heirlooms. That sort of thing."
"I suppose we can have a few of the whelps handle them, then." He set them back down on the table. "Thank you."
"Of course." She turned back to the door, reaching out and placing her hand on the knob. She paused. He was already hunched over his parchment again, the scratch of the quill loud in the otherwise silent room. Her fingers clenched of their own accord, nails biting into her palm. "Skjor?"
He glanced up. "Yes?"
"I…I was wondering…Do you know if…" Lysanor swallowed, watching his face carefully. It was silly for the Dragonborn to be nervous around a man who had never even been unkind to her, but she would be lying if she said he didn't frighten her a little bit. His tired, weathered face and clever eyes, one of which was milky and scarred from a wound obtained decades ago, spoke of years of experience and knowledge. Even among a group of legendary warriors, he stuck out as especially intimidating. She lowered her eyes, unable to hold his gaze. "Never mind."
He raised one heavy grey brow at her. "What's on your mind, sister?"
"Nothing important," she lied. "You must be busy. I'll just ask Aela later."
Skjor watched her for a moment, clearly trying to glean whether or not he should press the issue. Finally, he nodded. "Alright," he said simply. "Good night."
"Good night," she echoed, slipping out of the room before he could change his mind. She gently pulled the door shut behind her and took a deep breath. She should have asked him while she had the chance. If anyone knew, it was Skjor. She rubbed tiredly at her eyes. Too late now. She adjusted the few letters still clamped in her hand—the majority of them had gone to Skjor—and made her way to Aela's (empty) room, then the twins's. When all the mail had been delivered she returned to her still-silent bedroom. The darkness was heavy, oppressive. Gods, how she wished for just one good night's sleep.