A/N: This chapter has been a long time coming, I know! I'd like to thank my readers for being patient, as well as for all of the positive feedback and love! It is greatly appreciated. The next chapter WILL be delivered on schedule.
This chapter and the next were intended to be just ONE chapter, but it ended up being so huge that I had to split it into two. I hope you all enjoy! As always, feel free to let me know what you think.
The first thing that Merrin found on the other side of the heavy wooden doors seemed to be a fist-fight.
As the carved oak closed behind her with a thud, she saw several people leaving their seats at a long wooden table shaped like a horse-shoe in the centre of the room; they were rushing to stand and watch a scuffle happening far across the hall. As she stood there uncertain about what she should do, she heard a sigh, and then a gruff voice calling out nearby from somewhere to her left.
'By the Nine, are those two at it again?'
Another male voice farther away chuckled, and responded. 'When are they ever not?'
Feeling almost as if she were trespassing and wondering if she should just come back later, Merrin walked on stiff legs down a set of burnished mahogany stairs. She skirted around the end of the long table that opened into a fire-pit providing heat and light for the room, and walked up an identical shallow staircase that led to the far side of the hall where people were gathering.
As she walked, she looked furtively around for somebody who looked like they might be in charge, and although she recognized a couple of faces—the Imperial woman who'd been at the Mare and her blond friend most likely named Torvar—she didn't see anybody who really seemed to be a leader. Then she cursed inwardly as she suddenly realized that Aela had given her no actual description of the Harbinger—she'd have to ask around for him. But now hardly seemed like the moment to try.
She had a good view of the fight, now; could hear it perfectly, too.
'Is that really all you've got? When did you turn into such a little bitch?!'
'Oho, just you wait, you little s'wit. This time, I'm gonna—oof!'
She could recognize the man who'd just been talking. It was Athis, the Dunmer who'd come into the tavern with Torvar and the Imperial woman. His red hair was falling out of its ponytail and his war-paint was smudged—likely on account of being hit in the face. His words had been abruptly cut off by his opponent's fist driving into his gut.
Said opponent was a woman, surprisingly short for being a Nord, with the lightest platinum blonde hair Merrin had ever seen and warpaint the color of fresh blood slashing across her pale cheeks. She was already smiling triumphantly despite the fight having just gotten started, and when Athis staggered away from her, she tipped her head back and laughed.
'Oh, come on, Athis. At least try to make this a bit of a challenge!'
'Ignore her, Athis!' The Imperial woman was standing just in front of Merrin, and she'd cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted to be heard over the cheers and jeers of the other warriors around them. 'Just focus!'
Athis shook himself then, and he seemed to take her advice seriously, because he threw himself back into the fight with renewed determination. They started trading blows back and forth, and Merrin couldn't help but wince; the Dunmer was of a typical lithe build, and barely even armored, and the woman pummelling him was an incredibly hard hitter. What he held over her in speed, she made up for with sheer brute strength. And she seemed fiercely determined; even the Dunmer's most punishing blows got little more out of her than a grunt or a curse while she shook off the pain.
Seconds passed like minutes for the onlookers, and Merrin was actually biting her lower lip when she felt a hand grab her by the shoulder and pull her aside. She whirled around, ready to throw her own punch if she needed to—but she immediately recognized the woman in front of her.
Aela stood there smiling at her, and there was obvious warmth in her jade green eyes as she looked Merrin over with approval.
'Aela! I didn't see you when I came in.' She lowered her hands back down to her sides and jerked her head back at the Nord and Dunmer, who were now rolling around on the flagstone floor. 'Why isn't anyone breaking this up?'
The red-head snorted. 'What, those two? This is an average Fredas for them. Also an average Loredas, Sundas, Morndas...' she started ticking the days off on long, slender fingers.
'Alright, alright, I get the picture.' She thought about the state of her own face twenty minutes ago, and winced. Who would fist-fight for fun every day?
Aela laughed at Merrin's expression, and then she crossed her arms over her chest and tipped up her chin as she regarded her.
'So, you've come to us after all. I had a feeling you'd be showing up.'
Merrin was sure that the other woman caught the faint grimace that she tried to repress before she answered; that was a whole lot of confidence, over someone who hadn't at all been sure she was even showing up.
'I still can't really believe this is happening. And I don't know that your Harbinger will think I have what it takes. But I've decided that I want to try.'
Aela's smile turned into a grin as she nodded. 'That's the spirit. You should head downstairs and talk to Kodlak. See what he has to say.'
Her voice was loud and confident when she spoke, and it suited her; Merrin had known her for mere minutes, and already couldn't imagine her sounding any other way.
'Speaking of Kodlak, you never told me what he looks like. How will I know which man to talk to?'
'Turn right when you get downstairs, and just keep walking until you run out of room,' Aela replied. Her deep green eyes were intense as they stared. 'And as for Kodlak, you'll know him when you see him. They call him White-Mane—he tends to stand out.'
Nerves were sizzling back to life in her stomach, making Merrin angry with herself, and she didn't want this woman to see them. She averted her face from the red-headed warrior, looking instead in the direction she'd pointed to.
'Then I guess I won't waste any more time. I'll head downstairs and—'
Their conversation was abruptly drowned out by the sound of wild yelling behind them, and Merrin spun around again.
The platinum-haired Nord had picked Athis up and thrown him onto one of several wooden end-tables lining the wall. The table gave an ominous cracking sound as he crashed down onto it, and before the Dunmer could get his bearings, she delivered a punch to his gut so forceful that the table broke beneath him and he tumbled to the ground.
More than one onlooker groaned sympathetically as the Dunmer curled into a ball, clutching his stomach and making hacking noises. The Nord woman stepped forward, looming above him, and she quirked a pale brow as she raised her fist. Athis saw her and threw a hand out to stop her.
'Alright, alright Njada. That's enough!' He groaned, returning both hands to where her last hit had landed. 'I'm done.'
The woman he'd called Njada curled her lip up in a feral kind of snarl. 'Yeah you are, milk-drinker. Now pay me what you owe me.'
The blonde man named Torvar shoved past another spectator and bent down to offer Athis a hand, and the Dunmer took it, struggling painfully to his feet. Scowling, he yanked a bag of coin off of the nearest end table and tossed it at her chest. Then he leaned on Torvar as he hobbled away, muttering under his breath as he went. Njada had caught the bag of coin, and she smiled gloatingly as she weighed it in her palm, calling out to Athis' back.
'Let me know the next time you're feeling tough!'
It was then that Aela took Merrin by the arm and turned her around again, looking amused. 'You can go and talk to Kodlak. You're not missing anything up here.'
Merrin wasn't sure she agreed, but she nodded at her and turned to leave.
'Oh, wait. Before you go.' Aela was looking at her curiously again when she turned her head.
'I've forgotten to ask you before now. What is your name?' She cracked another wry smile. 'I can't just keep calling you stranger.'
'My name is Merrin.'
Aela cocked her head to one side, hair shifting like a flame around her shoulders. 'I like the sound of that. Well, Merrin...good luck.'
She only nodded in response before she turned away, and finally started walking across the long, airy room.
The underground portion of Jorrvaskr opened up onto a long hallway made almost entirely of cobbled stone, with a rounded ceiling about ten feet high. No windows existed to let daylight inside, so the way was lit by regular sconces, clusters of candles on wooden side-tables, and intermittent chandeliers whose braziers were made of hollowed-out goat horns. A long red rug with strands of gold woven through it ran the entire length of the hallway to warm up the stony facade, and banners of a similar shade were hanging in intervals down the right wall. The left wall was a different story; interrupted only by the odd doorway, it was covered almost entirely in shields, affixed to the wall in an interlocking phalanx. There were easily hundreds of them, in all different states of repair—an endless sea of detail.
Looking at them suddenly made a lump rise to lodge in Merrin's throat. She didn't need anybody to explain the shields' significance to her—she knew without being told.
There must have been a shield here for nearly every Companion who had ever lived in this mead hall. Every shield was a permanent mark...an enduring sign that a warrior had lived there.
She felt a strong urge to walk right up to the shields and start inspecting them more closely. But after wavering for several seconds, she held back; she'd come down here to speak to the Harbinger, and she needed to see it through. Taking Aela's earlier directions, she turned to the right and started walking down the corridor.
Everything was washed in flickering shadows and golden candle-light, and she found herself soaking in the hall's atmosphere as she walked. Despite being underground and made of stone, there was nothing unwelcoming about the space around her—it was obviously tended by loving hands, and actually felt homey, and she decided immediately that she liked it there. Cracked porcelain jugs full of tundra cotton and blue mountain flowers sat resting on every table she passed, and when she saw a plate of boiled creme treats sitting next to one of them, her stomach growled loudly, making her long for the breakfast she'd abandoned.
Focus! Focus!
She'd passed a set of hallways branching off to her left and right and was coming up onto a set of closed wooden doors that were elaborately carved, with blue stained trim. She figured this had to be the right place, since she couldn't go any further.
As she walked up to the closed doors, she heard two male voices—one mellow and rich, the other rougher and heavily accented.
'I know you do, my boy. As do we all. It is our burden to bear...but we can overcome it.'
'You have my brother and I, obviously. But I'm not sure the others will go along with it.'
'You just leave that part to me.'
This was obviously a private conversation, and Merrin didn't want to intrude, so she lifted a hand and knocked resolutely at one of the wooden doors. The moment she made her presence known, both speakers fell silent. And then she heard the first voice that had spoken calling out to her.
'Enter.'
She pulled open the door, and walked into a kind of study; this was clearly an academic man's space. The left wall was dominated by a tall bookshelf crammed with heavy tomes, and a dark wooden desk with a map of Skyrim pinned to its surface. To her right was a display case, with an ebony sword resting on the velvet inside, and further down, another set of closed wooden doors.
The room was still cozy, with rugs scattered over the stone floor and another chandelier in the centre of the ceiling, bathing the room in warm light. More red banners hung fluttering on the walls, but she realized with a start that these were different; instead of just a simple design, each one depicted Wuuthrad, embroidered in shiny golden thread. The mighty axe of Ysgramor was unmistakable, even just on a tapestry, and somehow seeing it there made the entire situation feel more real to her.
She looked dead ahead last, at the men in the room. There were two of them, both Nords, sitting at yet another table, with a dish of pie and goblets of wine perched on the wood between them. Her gaze was drawn first to the man on the left, and looking at him made her start with surprise.
He looked uncannily like the enormous man she'd met in the field outside of Whiterun; she could tell right away that it wasn't him, but they were so similar, he must have been a relation. Still, there were several differences.
The arms that were crossed over his chest were less burly—in fact, he seemed to be leaner in general, and maybe shorter, too. He had the same dark brown hair, but it was chopped at his jaw, not at his shoulders, and it was piecier somehow, as if he'd cut it himself. His face was very similar, but leaner, with a longer chin. The most striking difference was in the eyes; they were ringed in the same sooty kohl and were almost the exact same shade of silvery blue, but that was where the similarities ended. There was no warmth in these eyes as they regarded her; where the man she'd met had seemed friendly and welcoming, this man's stare seemed to push her away, and he looked on her with an open suspicion that instantly put her on the defensive.
Looking at him made her suddenly realize that she hadn't seen his lookalike anywhere, either in the mead hall or the living quarters, and the realization filled her gut with unexpected disappointment. Trying to keep her mouth from twisting, she turned her gaze away from him and looked at the other man in the room.
Instantly, she knew that this was who she'd come to speak to—this man could only be Kodlak White-Mane, Harbinger of Jorrvaskr. He was a large man, who radiated a sort of elegant composure, and just as Aela had promised, he stood out; he had a thick head of unruly white hair that gleamed in the candlelight, and an impressive beard to match, with both of them sporting several small braids. Under the beard was a handsome face with chiseled cheeks, tanned by the sun and lined with age. The right side of his face sported a swirling Nordic tattoo that covered his cheek and trailed down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his armor.
His eyes were a stormy grey that suited his looks—but the second she looked into them, she realized that something strange was happening.
He was staring at her like she was a ghost, in absolute astonishment, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Merrin couldn't think of any reason why he would stare like that, and her brows furrowed as she opened her mouth, to ask the man if he was alright. But he spoke before she had the chance.
'You've come.'
The words were a wondering whisper, full of awe. He stared at her that way for a split second longer, but before she could react in any way, the strange moment passed; he smoothly schooled his rugged features, and the light of amazement left his eyes. His companion had turned to look at him sharply, but the older man ignored him, and his gaze turned keen as he assessed her.
'A stranger comes to the mighty hall of Jorrvaskr. Tell me, girl. What brings you to the home of the Companions?'
Her stomach was doing uneasy flips as she held his silvery gaze. Why did he seem to recognize her? Had he been expecting her, somehow? In the wake of that bizarre moment, she wasn't sure what to say; when she finally unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth, her voice came out sounding uncertain and it made her want to kick herself.
'I...are you Kodlak White-Mane?'
'Aye, that's me.' He was looking at her expectantly now. 'What can I do for you?'
Merrin steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and standing up straighter, determined not to sound as nervous as she felt. She spoke again, and was pleased this time when her voice came out strong.
'Aela directed me to you. I wish to become a Companion.'
'You do, do you? Hmm.' His entire demeanour shifted then; his stormy grey eyes took on a hint of a sparkle, and he lifted his chin as he leaned forward in his chair. 'And what name do you go by?'
She cleared her throat, and introduced herself for the second time in five minutes. 'Merrin Hakonsdotter, sir.' She knew he hadn't asked for a surname, but she felt compelled to give it anyway.
The Harbinger nodded intently at her words, and then rested his chin on his steepled fingers as he eyed her. 'Come a little closer, and let me have a look at you.'
Merrin hurried to do as he asked, stepping forward until she was only a stride's distance from him. As she walked, she could feel the other man's gaze on her as well, but she kept her eyes on Kodlak.
As she came to a stop in front of him, she felt suddenly self-conscious; too aware of the wild tangles in the hair hanging loose around her face, and of the shabby condition of her scavenged armor.
She couldn't identify the reason why, but something about the older man staring at her both intimidated her and made her want his approval, all at the same time. There was something wise and knowing in those hooded silvery eyes, and despite the fact that she was in her thirtieth year, a part of her felt like a little girl again as she submitted herself to his scrutiny.
Such a thing would normally just get under her skin and make her angry—but the anger was strangely absent now. Something about the smile spreading over his face kept her spine from stiffening.
He looked her over for another moment, and then made a low humming sound as he cleared his throat. His eyes returned to hers before he spoke again.
'Yes...perhaps. I can see that you possess a certain strength of spirit. We've always valued that, here.'
Merrin opened her mouth to respond, but the other man in the room cut in and beat her to it.
'Master.' He sounded incredulous, disbelieving. 'You're not truly considering accepting her, are you?'
The irritation that had been curiously absent went rushing through her with a vengeance then, and she scowled as she turned her head to look at the stranger who clearly had a problem with her. When her eyes landed on his face, she saw that he wore an expression not unlike her own, and the two glared silently at each other, sizing one another up.
As far as she could tell, he didn't look like he could be much older than she was, but she knew that didn't mean very much. He was no pushover, that much was obvious; his build attested to long hours fighting, and the fact that he was sitting there spoke of his credentials. Worse, she noticed then with another start that he and the Harbinger were wearing the exact same armor—a steel set with a carved wolf head on the breast plate—and it made her wonder what his station was amidst the Companions. Was he someone she would have to take orders from?
Kodlak spoke then, cutting into her unpleasant train of thought.
'Vilkas, your manners!' he chided with a laugh. 'And you know full well that I'm nobody's master. But the last time I checked, Jorrvaskr still had plenty of empty beds for those with a fire burning in their hearts.' His eyes flicked back over and landed on her, still glaring at the younger man. 'I have a feeling she more than fits that description.'
The man named Vilkas looked like he wanted to argue, but after a moment he seemed to rein himself in; he exhaled sharply, and most of the heat left his gaze. His expression took on a sullen quality, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and flat.
'Apologies, Kodlak.'
Oh, apologies to Kodlak? Just to Kodlak?
'But perhaps this isn't really the best time,' he continued. He waved one hand toward her and then let it drop, unmistakably dismissive. 'I've never even heard of this outsider...this Merrin Hakonsdotter.' He said her name as if it tasted sour, and Merrin gritted her teeth as she felt seeds of dislike for him start to take root in her chest.
Neither man was looking at her for the moment, and Kodlak shook his head as he eyed his subordinate.
'You know that doesn't matter. Sometimes the famous come to our halls—other times the nameless turn up at our door, looking to make their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart.'
'Don't forget their arm,' was Vilkas' grumbled reply.
'Of course, of course.' Kodlak leaned back into his chair as he turned to look at Merrin again. 'It's plain to see that you're in good shape, girl. What did you do, before you came to us?'
Her problem wasn't with Kodlak; so far, he'd been nothing but respectful of her. She did her best to shove down her anger, and kept her voice level when she answered him. 'I was a sword for hire.'
'Ah, a mercenary.' He smiled. 'You'd be far from the first to join our ranks. And how are you in battle?'
'I can handle myself.' It was difficult not to throw a glare Vilkas' way, but she managed.
Kodlak seemed to catch her flare of temper, and his smile widened as his grey eyes twinkled. 'That may be so. We'll have to see.'
Merrin forced herself to relax; this was what she'd come here for. 'Of course. You have a test for me?'
He nodded, eyes still twinkling; he was all but a stranger, so she couldn't be sure, but she could've sworn it was a twinkle of merry mischief. 'Vilkas here will test your arm.'
Instantly, she stiffened, and the dark-haired man across from her did the same, like a mirror image. He was clearly bitterly regretting his earlier comment about newcomer's skill, and he gripped the arms of his chair with both hands as his shoulders hunched up to practically meet his ears.
Kodlak turned to look at him, apparently oblivious to their obvious discomfort.
'Vilkas, take her out to the yard and see what she can do.'
'But Kodlak...' His voice was a blend of irritated and entreating, like he was going to beg Kodlak to reconsider.
Merrin fumed; she had no idea why someone who didn't know a thing about her would be so vocally doubtful of her skills. And she had no way of knowing what he was about to say, but she felt like she could safely assume that it was going to warm her up to the idea of hitting him with something.
Whatever he'd opened his mouth to say, Merrin never found out; Kodlak tilted his head and hit the younger man with a look that spoke volumes, so stern that it brooked no argument. After only a brief hesitation, Vilkas sighed roughly, his shoulders slumping, and gave a single defeated nod.
'Aye.'
The Harbinger nodded back at him, satisfied. 'Report back to me and tell me how she fares. I'll trust your opinion on her skill to be honest and impartial, as always.'
Vilkas only nodded again, and then he pulled himself up out of his chair and strode purposefully past her, not waiting for her to follow. Merrin thanked Kodlak for seeing her as quickly as she could, and then rushed after him, dread pooling in her stomach like molten metal.
As she caught up to Vilkas, her thoughts were awhirl, and she found it difficult not to panic.
Why on Nirn would Kodlak expect this...skeever to be honest about her skills?! He obviously had some sort of problem with her. Why wouldn't the Harbinger just come and watch her test for himself?
Vilkas said nothing as she caught up to him, and she had nothing to say to him, so they walked in stiff silence down the rest of the hallway and up the stairs to the main floor of the mead hall.
Other Companions had retaken their seats at the main table after Athis and Njada's fight, and several pairs of eyes now tracked them with interest as Vilkas led the way across the room. Still without uttering a word, he slipped through what she assumed were the back doors; she had to work to keep her hands from balling into fists as she caught a door and made to follow him, and she could hear curious murmurs coming from the room behind her as she slipped outside.
She'd been right about the doors leading to the back side of the mead hall; as she passed through them she found herself entering a sort of patio space, with a vaulted ceiling made of wooden pillars and slats that let the sunshine through, and a collection of rickety old tables to sit at. Vilkas had marched beyond that point, into what she could tell was the training yard; the practice ground was cobblestone worn smooth from centuries of sparring. Jorrvaskr's backyard butted up against the city's wall, and practice dummies were lined up along the worn grey stone. One of the city's lookout points was just off to the right, and an alcove jutting out from the wall gave an excellent view of the valley below. Just to the side of the lookout post was a ranged target for shooting practice—good incentive, when a couple of inches one way or the other meant keeping your arrow or hurling it out into the valley.
When her gaze returned to Vilkas' back, she realized she wasn't scared—her nerves had evaporated in the face of his underestimation. Now, there was only the desire to prove herself; to wipe the condescending look off of his face. When he finally turned around to face her, her expression was calm, and she steadily met and held his gaze.
'Alright. The old man wants me to test your arm, so let's get this over with.'
He'd grabbed two wooden practice swords from where they'd been leaning against the far wall, and he tossed one to her as she walked to close the gap between them. It sailed through the air before she caught it neatly, and when she looked back over at him, he snorted—as if he'd been hoping it would hit her in the face.
'I want you to try and land some hits, so I can get a feel for your skill. Are you familiar with point-system sparring?'
She eyed him for another moment before she answered curtly. 'Yes.'
He must not have bought her answer, because he opened his mouth and started explaining anyway, as if to a disobedient child.
'We're going to be using these practice swords to try and get successful hits in. A successful hit is any good blow to a vulnerable area—head, neck, underarm, thighs, tendons...that kind of thing. A successful hit gets you a point, which is acknowledged vocally when you hit it. Understand?'
'I understood before you said anything,' she snapped.
He made no response to her obvious irritation, his gaze landing on her unoccupied hand. 'Do you use a shield?'
'No. Never have. It's not my style.'
He snorted audibly in response, and muttered something quietly that sounded suspiciously like 'figures' as he shook his head. Her anger surged like a hot spew in her chest, but she forced it down. Remained collected.
'Alright then, might as well begin. Come at me, do your best to hit points. And don't worry.' He smirked at her then. 'You're not going to hurt me.'
How had this man ended up so insufferably cocky? 'We'll see about that.'
His only reply was to raise his shield at an angle close to his chest, and prepare the wooden sword to strike. She smoothly took a stance of her own by slipping into a cross guard—a move that would help lessen the obvious disadvantage she was at, fighting a shielded opponent.
And then began the slow circling. It was plain to see that the man in front of her was not at all serious about this fight, or about her. His weapon and shield were readied, but there was no tension in his body, no analysis in the eyes that swept over her. She didn't let it bother her; soon enough, she'd make him regret it.
Suddenly she heard the sound of the back doors opening behind her, and several people filing through them, and she whipped her head around.
Several of the people who'd been watching Athis and Njada's fight were now apparently intent on watching hers; many of the people she'd seen when she'd come into the mead hall were now taking chairs at the rickety tables, eyeing her appraisingly and talking among themselves.
'It's been a while since we've had a good testing to watch.'
A balding middle-aged man in plainclothes had spoken, and he sounded enthusiastic as he looked at her. In response, there was a barking sort of laugh from a man sitting at the next table over—a slightly older man, with a short silver pony-tail and a jagged scar ripping over a milky-white eye. He was also staring at Merrin with the eye that could see, and he seemed amused.
'Best calm yourself, Brill. No saying yet that this testing will be a good one, either.'
'Don't judge too quickly yourself, you old burr.' Aela was standing just behind the gruff-looking warrior, and despite the casual way she leaned against the back of his chair, her eyes were fixed and gleaming on the two opponents, watching every stride. 'I have a feeling about this one.'
Her attention was yanked forcefully from the group of people watching her by the feeling of a practice sword slashing over her thigh.
'Point.'
When she snapped her head back around, Vilkas' steely blue eyes were on her face, and he gave her a sardonic smile as he waved his wooden sword in an arc through the air.
'You've already broken rule number one,' he said, his tone oddly triumphant. 'Never look away from your opponent.'
She gritted her teeth, trying not to glare. 'Relish it. It's not going to happen again.'
Merrin appraised him in earnest now; his form was undeniably excellent, and his guard was all but watertight, despite his lack of interest. If she was going to best him, she'd need to trip him up.
So she wasn't ceremonious about it—she feinted quickly to his right, and aimed a flicking slash right for his unguarded face.
A reckless or inexperienced fighter would panic, and throw their shield up to catch the attack, leaving themselves open to all sorts of others. But Vilkas was clearly neither; he leapt neatly back, without so much as moving his shield, and let the wood whistle by an inch from his face.
She drew back just as quickly as she'd come, calculating.
She'd been truthful in what she told him; in all her years fighting, she'd never used a shield—had never even liked the idea. That meant that she'd need to make him misuse his, or else she wouldn't be able to touch him, let alone best him. Without a shield, she couldn't bash, couldn't plow her way in, couldn't shove his defenses aside. And had no way of countering if he decided to try any of those things.
She'd have to rely on precision. Speed. Good form and footwork. She'd have to make him work against himself.
So Merrin picked up the pace; she started to force him to move around more, and took short, quick swings at his sword-arm that he had no choice but to counter.
After several seconds of quick jabbing and parrying, she got what she wanted; she swung high as if to hit him in the head or neck, and he caught her sword from below, swinging it violently down and around in a wide-arcing deflection. She used the momentum he'd contributed to, and there was nothing he could do as she lunged forward, slashing her wooden sword across his inner thigh, jumping away again before he could strike back.
It was tit for tat, and the irony clearly wasn't escaping anybody—a few hoots of laughter could be heard from behind them, and Vilkas looked nothing short of affronted as she tipped her head to the side and shot him a smug smile that she couldn't hold back. 'Point,' she said, with mock sweetness.
After that, things picked up speed. It became quickly clear to her that Vilkas was as prideful as she'd perceived him to be—and competitive, too. After she landed that hit, all of the indifference left his steely eyes, and he responded in a way that said 'Now I'm participating.' He started initiating his own blows, and they came fast and hard, forcing her to compensate.
The moves were a dance she'd been practising for years, and as their speed increased and the stakes rose higher, her focus narrowed until all she knew was him—her opponent, the push to her pull, the cause to her effect—and in this focus she found a strange sense of ease. She no longer heard the murmurs of the crowd behind them.
Before long, they were a whirlwind of determination, and the sound of wood striking wood rang out across the training yard, punctuated with the grunting of exertion. The two of them turned out to be pretty evenly matched, a revelation neither party was happy with; Merrin was faster and lighter on her feet, and could take more risks because of it. But even though she was a strong woman, Vilkas was stronger; he kept grinding through her cross-checks, and on the rare occasion that he managed to bash her with his shield, she paid for it.
And they were scoring points on each other—a feint too slow resulting in a jab to the ribs, an ambitious side-roll ending in a slash to the tendons behind the knee.
The only word they said to one another was 'point', whenever one was scored. But somewhere along the way, the fight had become personal for both of them; each time someone said it, it was in a tone slightly more ferocious than the last time, and the one little word was crammed with all of the various others left unsaid, but keenly felt.
She chalked his animosity up to a bad attitude and too much self-importance...but she had something to prove. Her acceptance into the Companions likely hinged on this. And she was determined to make him eat his underestimation—raw, with no seasoning, if possible.
Then came a turning point in the fight. When they were at seven and six in Vilkas' favor, Vilkas swung out at her free arm, and as she was crossing herself to parry the strike, he landed a punishing blow to her shoulder with his shield, so fast she could only watch it come.
She yelled in pain as the shoulder wrenched horribly, and she went flying back from the impact of the shield. He advanced on her, sword poised to strike, and she had to scramble immediately to her feet, while spectators exclaimed at her back.
The shoulder was finished for now—it would need healing later, and she couldn't continue the fight using it. She gingerly tried to roll it, and cursed before quickly letting it drop again.
She looked up then at her opponent. Vilkas was breathing hard from exertion, and his eyes were alight with obvious triumph; he clearly believed he'd won.
Merrin snorted. 'I'm not done yet.'
And she took her sword up into her other hand.
Vilkas let out a snort of his own, looking incredulous. 'Come now, have some dignity. Know when to admit that a fight is over.'
Anger flared in her once again, and she replied in her flat, unyielding way.
'When this fight is really over, we'll both know it. Now come on.'
Vilkas looked shocked as she advanced on him, and very soon, he looked unhappy as well; a left-handed opponent was the bane of most warriors, and for good reason. With two right-handed fighters, the match had symmetry, and reliability. A set of patterns. Against a left-handed opponent, every pattern was turned upside-down, and a man was left scrambling.
He parried her first strike imperfectly, and raised his voice over the excited shouting of the people behind them, watching this new development unfold.
'You have two sword arms?' He was scowling readily now, and sounding offended, and it evoked a fierce smile from her in return.
'I told you a shield wasn't my style.'
He let out a sound close to a harrumph, and the match resumed, Vilkas redoubling his efforts.
He was losing ground, and they both new it; Merrin's left hand wasn't her dominant one, but she was more than proficient. She kept her injured arm tucked close to her body, and was no slower on her feet for it. Vilkas had to work much harder to anticipate her reversed movements, and as they fought she kept a hawk-like vigil for his mistakes.
She stayed up in his space as much as possible, hampering his use of his sword, and it wasn't long before he started making them; he tried to bash at her again and she stepped neatly out of his way before jabbing at his extended underarm, evening out the score.
'Point.'
The spar ended at the first to reach ten points, or the first to disarm. With seven points each, it was creeping close, and the tension he'd been lacking at the start of the match was rolling off of him in palpable waves. He decided to try something new then, and lunged abruptly forward with his shield primed ahead of him and his sword angled down towards her from over top of it.
She knew the move well—in Morrowind, they called it the Goring Boar—and with no shield, her only recourse was to get out of the way.
Her injury was tiring her, sapping her energy, and she barely made it out of his way before he barrelled through the air she'd occupied, spinning her body to angle away from him. In those moments she was completely open for attack, but he couldn't capitalize on them. In the end, his own momentum tripped him up again—she whacked him non-too-gently on the back of the head while he was still facing away from her.
'Point.'
He snarled in reply. It was plain to see that he was angry; when he whipped around to face her again, two spots of livid color stood out high on his cheekbones, and his eyes were as hard and as cold as gems.
Somebody's not used to losing, I see.
After that, he changed his strategy—he closed up completely. He took two full strides back from where he'd been, putting distance between them, and reverted to his initial game; all defense, as opposed to offense.
After a couple of dead-end jabs, Merrin hissed through gritted teeth. She knew what he was trying to do: outlast her, so that her injury burned her out, and he could swoop in when she was too tired to fight. What kind of victory was that?
I have to get him to take a chance.
Eyeing him solidly, she adjusted her plan. Her shoulder was throbbing, and her breath was coming hard; she didn't have much time to work with.
She began a series of feints and jabs. At first, they were all well done, the same as she'd been delivering throughout. In response, he watched her carefully, doing as little as he could get away with, blocking all of her attempts to reach him.
Then, slowly, she started getting a little sloppy; getting a little too close to him, being a little too slow when she backed away, and letting her form sag into flaw. Exactly how a person would look if they were falling to an injury, and getting exhausted.
After a few tense seconds of analysis, Vilkas re-engaged. He started trying to hit her with efficient jabs, that would do what was necessary if they managed to land. She waited as long as possible before dodging them clumsily, and before long, the fire of frustration had re-ignited in his eyes.
Yes. Feeling her legs start to cramp, she ramped up her efforts. She started feinting in even closer to him now, leaving herself open from several angles, and leaping back just out of his reach at the last possible moment, so that she could feel the wind from his sword on her skin. It was a gamble she was taking; many of those swings came within inches of her injured arm, and if one of them landed, she'd be sorry.
More and more she taunted him, and farther and farther he swung his sword in his attempt to strike her. Both of them were sweating profusely now under the summer sun, and his teeth were gritted and bared as he growled again in frustration.
Finally, he took the bait.
Merrin went hopping back from this last poorly executed feint as quickly as she could, and Vilkas lunged after her with his sword close to fully extended, letting out a strangled cry as he went.
It all hinged on how she executed the next moment. Ignoring the screaming of her arm and legs, she jumped to the left as his sword entered her space, managing to evade his slashing arc. In the same fluid moment, she used her own sword to chop down past his guard, and strike his naked wrist as hard as she could.
There was a definitive crack as her sword connected, and then it was her opponent's turn to yell out in pain. Vilkas' hand fell open with a jolt, and his practice sword fell to the ground at his feet—it was a successful disarm.
For a second, the only sound around was their ragged breathing. He dropped his shield and clutched his injured wrist, staring at the sword on the ground as if he couldn't believe it was there. Then he looked up at her.
Merrin was staring coolly at him, restraining the urge to jump and scream at her victory. That kind of display would lessen the impact of her victory, with someone like him. Instead, she shot him a smirk of her own, as smug and self-assured as she could make it.
She was remembering his earlier words, and the distaste in his voice, letting them both wash over her in her moment of triumph.
'Perhaps this isn't the best time. I've never even heard of this outsider...this Merrin Hakonsdotter.'
Then she lifted her chin in defiance, and spoke in a voice that was cool and flat.
'Well, you've heard of me now.'
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