Chapter Text
As it turns out, the inside of Jorrvaskr is ten times more intimidating than the outside. It also seems significantly bigger on the inside, although not ten times as much. There are people all over the place, people who Ja’kir doesn’t doubt could kill him in at least sixty different ways without even breaking a sweat. He doesn’t see anyone he recognizes, which is terrifying enough in itself.
Two of the Companions - at least, he figures they’re Companions, either that or he has the wrong building - are fighting. Or maybe they’re sparring. The two of them certainly don’t seem friendly towards each other, though, and as Ja’kir watches, the Nord gets her opponent, a Dunmer, in a sort of headlock and doesn’t let go until her opponent crumples to the ground, passed out. At least, Ja’kir hopes he’s passed out.
“Can I help you?”
Ja’kir nearly leaps out of his fur. Instead, he turns to face the guy who’s spoken. He’s an older warrior, clearly, battle-scarred and all, and if the rest of the Companions could kill him in at least sixty different ways without breaking a sweat, this Nord alone could probably kill him in at least seventy, maybe eighty. Ja’kir scrambles for something good to say, or at least coherent. He would settle for coherent at this point.
“Um. Yes,” Ja’kir stammers. He lashes his tail anxiously, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He takes a deep breath. “How do I join the Companions?” The man he’s talking to raises an eyebrow, like he thinks he’s joking. Ja’kir isn’t joking.
“Well, lucky for you that’s not up to me to decide,” the old Nord says at last. “Talk to Kodlak. He’s down there somewhere-” He gestures to a set of stairs heading down (underground?) with an unreadable expression. “-and you’ll know him when you find him.” Ja’kir nods.
“Thank you,” Ja’kir says quietly, but the man he was talking to has already turned away. Ja’kir takes the hint and doesn't keep trying. Instead, he heads down the stairs and into the depths of the place.
As it happens, Ja’kir doesn't particularly like being underground, but that doesn't matter. He can hear voices, and voices means people, and hopefully one of those people is the Kodlak person he needs to find. He draws closer, and turns the corner.
“I’m telling you,” a Nord who looks an awful lot like Farkas continues, “it's getting harder and harder to- who do you think you are!?” Ja’kir flinches under the man’s glare, and takes a step back.
“This… I'm sorry, I'll go, I'm sorry,” Ja’kir says quietly, inching away. “Sorry…”
“Sorry?” The man repeats, getting up and moving to attack. “I’ll show you sorry!”
The other man, another much older Nord, the one who'd been listening, puts a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and shakes his head.
“Vilkas, peace,” the older man says. “If he wanted a fight, he would have gotten it with the others.” Ja’kir looks between them, honestly rather terrified. At least the aggressive guy - Vilkas, if Ja’kir heard the old man right - seems less aggressive now, and more wary.
“Look at him! He's a Khajiit,” Vilkas exclaims. “You know how they are!” Ja’kir visibly bristles.
“You don't see this one assuming every Nord is a barbarian who drinks the blood of his enemies with every meal,” Ja’kir spits. Vilkas glares at him, and although inwardly Ja’kir is still terrified, outwardly he meets Vilkas’s gaze. “Not every Khajiit is a thief. This one would- I would die before becoming one.”
“Both of you, stop it, now,” the old man orders. Ja’kir doesn't even know who this guy is, but he nods regardless. He moves his hand away from the dagger. “Vilkas, that was uncalled for.”
“Sorry,” Vilkas says, not sounding particularly sorry.
“Now, what or who are you looking for?” The old man asks, redirecting his attention to Ja’kir, who gulps.
“Uh… this one, I, uh, was told to find Kodlak, and directed down here,” Ja’kir manages. “Are you…?”
“Kodlak? Yes,” the old man, Kodlak, says. He leans back in his chair, fixing his gaze on Ja’kir. “What can I do for you?” He seems interested more than anything else, which is probably a good sign, even though Ja'kir really isn't all that interesting.
“This one wants to join the Companions,” Ja’kir says quickly, then corrects himself, “I want to join the Companions.” Kodlak nods, and studies Ja’kir, who tries his best not to fidget too much.
“You do, do you?” Kodlak asks after a moment. Ja’kir nods a little too quickly, and meets the old man’s gaze. “Hm… a certain strength of spirit, perhaps...” Ja’kir would be glad he's not just saying no right away, except Vilkas looks ready to begin rioting.
“You can't seriously be considering this,” Vilkas protests, but a look from Kodlak silences him. The old man leans forward, and holds Ja’kir’s gaze.
“Tell me, why do you wish to join our number?”
Ja’kir takes a deep breath, then another, and thinks on this for some time. When he answers, he needs it to be the right one.
“Because this one- I want to learn how to be like you,” the Khajiit says quietly, and from then on the words spill out. “This one didn't grow up in Skyrim. I didn't even know you existed until yesterday. But you, the Companions, you’re warriors but you’re… more than warriors. If that makes sense. And I didn't grow up a fighter, but… this one wants, I want to be a part of this. I want to learn how to fight.” When he’s finished, Ja’kir takes a deep breath, and slowly lets it out.
Ja’kir’s fully expecting to be unceremoniously told that he can't join. He's cringing at how much he screwed up while saying those things, and probably Kodlak thinks he's an idiot now, and he’ll be back out on his own and-
“What is your name?” Kodlak asks finally. There's something in his gaze Ja’kir can't quite identify, and he's not sure he would want to, even if he could. Despite this...
“Ja’kir,” the Khajiit says, and then adds, unnecessarily, “my name is Ja’kir.” Kodlak nods, then turns to the other guy. Vilkas. Ja’kir’s hoping he heard the guy’s name right.
“Vilkas, take Ja’kir out to the training yard and see what he can do,” Kodlak orders, with a certain steely determination in his eyes that makes Vilkas nod automatically. “See what you think of him.” Vilkas nods again, and moves to leave.
“Well, come on, then,” Vilkas mutters, glancing back at Ja’kir like he couldn't care less, which is probably true. “I don't have all day.” Ja’kir nods quickly, still in disbelief that the Companions - the Companions - are actually giving him a chance. He does his best to keep up with Vilkas, and by the time they're out in the surprisingly-deserted training yard, he's pretty winded. Vilkas isn't.
“What now?” Ja’kir asks, trying not to sound like he's winded. Judging by the look Vilkas shoots him, he's not doing a very good job. Despite this, Vilkas cracks his neck and gets into a fighting stance, sans the sword.
“Take a few swings at me, so I can see your form,” Vilkas says lightly, like this sort of thing is normal. Well, it probably is. “I can take it.” Ja’kir nods slowly, and matches Vilkas’s stance as closely as he can.
“Got it,” Ja’kir says, attempting to match Vilkas’s easy tone, but before he can do anything Vilkas holds up a finger to stop.
“With your weapons,” Vilkas adds. Ja’kir stops in his tracks.
“You're crazy,” Ja’kir says. Vilkas shakes his head slowly.
“No, I’m not,” Vilkas objects. “How am I supposed to see how you fight if you don't fight the way you do normally?” He's got a point. He really does. And yet…
“How do you know I don't just fight hand to hand?” Ja’kir tries. “Maybe this one fights hand to hand normally.” Vilkas raises an eyebrow.
“Nice try, but no, you don't,” he says bluntly. “You wouldn't carry dual daggers like that otherwise. Not the greatest choice in my opinion, but if it works that's fine.” Ja’kir nods, unsheathes them, and hesitates.
“Are you... sure about this?” Ja’kir asks. “What if-?” Vilkas groans.
“Knowing when you need to show some restraint is what sets the good apart from the great, and some never learn,” Vilkas growls. He bangs a gloved fist against his chestplate. “But that's why I’m wearing this. Show me what you've got.”
Ja’kir takes a deep breath, nods, and charges. He's careful not to go for anywhere Vilkas’s armor doesn't cover, but he still strikes hard, and fast, and tries again and again and again, until...
“Alright, that's enough,” Vilkas says finally, taking a step back. Ja’kir nods, sheathing his daggers. “Your choice in weapons is questionable, and although you’re certainly not lacking in speed and power, your technique is atrocious. Who taught you how to fight?” Ja’kir gulps.
“This one is- I’m, uh. Self-taught,” Ja’kir admits. Vilkas rolls his eyes.
“Thought so. Your footwork is basically nonexistent, those daggers are in desperate need of sharpening, and you’re not anywhere near as aggressive as you need to be if you don't want to get yourself killed. Other than that…” Vilkas pauses, thinking on this for a moment. “Other than that, you’re not bad.”
“Really?” Ja’kir perks up instantly. “Does that mean…?” Vilkas glances at him, and although Ja’kir’s pretty sure he imagined it, he thinks he can see the very smallest of smiles. Vilkas is back to his regular scowl once Ja’kir blinks, so maybe he did imagine it.
“It means we might give you a chance,” Vilkas says, “so don't get too excited.” Ja’kir nods, but he can't stop himself from grinning if he tries, so he doesn't.
“Not excited, got it,” Ja’kir says quickly. “Right. What now?” Vilkas thinks on this for a moment, then unbuckles his sword.
“Take this up to Eorlund to get sharpened,” Vilkas says, passing Ja’kir the sword. “And be careful, it's probably worth more than you are.” Ja’kir stares at him incredulously.
“What?” Ja’kir manages, still in shock.
“Are you deaf? I said, take this up to Eorlund,” Vilkas orders. “Eorlund Gray-Mane? Best blacksmith in Skyrim?” Ja’kir shakes his head slowly.
“This one is- I'm from Cyrodiil,” Ja’kir reminds him. Vilkas groans. “Sorry…”
“You see the guy up there?” Vilkas tries again, and points. Ja’kir looks where he's pointing, and nods. “That's Eorlund. Now get going.” Ja’kir glances between Vilkas, where he's supposed to go, and the sword, still confused.
“This one… what?”
“Look,” Vilkas mutters, “do you want to join the Companions or not? You can't just waltz in here and ask to join. So get going, whelp. I don't have all day.”
Ja’kir visibly bristles, but nods. As he heads up the steps, he decides he doesn't like Vilkas. Not right now, anyway. Definitely not now.
“What can I do for you?”
Ja’kir realizes too late that he's reached the top of the steps, and that this ‘Eorlund Gray-Mane’ guy is talking to him. He gulps.
“This one- I, uh,” Ja’kir stammers, holding out the sword, “got sent with… um…”
“Vilkas sent you to get his sword sharpened,” Eorlund concludes. Ja’kir nods. “Fine. Give it here.” Ja’kir gladly passes it over, and as he watches, Eorlund sets it down next to a new-looking shield.
“You’re not going to sharpen it?” Ja’kir asks. Eorlund nods. “Why not?”
“Well, Vilkas might be a part of the Circle, but he's an ass to anyone new,” Eorlund says without skipping a beat. Ja’kir opens his mouth, then closes it. “He doesn't even use this sword. He only keeps it around to screw with new people like you.” Ja’kir nods, then freezes.
“Wait,” Ja’kir manages, “how did you know-?” Eorlund laughs.
“Only someone new to the Companions would agree to that,” Eorlund says, leaning back on the rock shelf he’s using for storage. “Besides, I'm about finished for the day. I’m not sharpening anything now. Got any questions, though, I can probably answer them.” Ja’kir nods.
“Are you a Companion?” Ja’kir asks, taking a seat on an unoccupied part of the rock shelf, letting his tail curl behind him. Eorlund grins, and shakes his head. “You… wait, what?”
“Technically, I'm not a Companion, though my brother is, or was,” Eorlund says with a shrug. “Haven’t seen him take on any jobs for years, so I’m going with was. As it happens, not a one of the actual Companions can smith to save their lives, so that’s what I’m here for.” Ja’kir nods. Vilkas might be, according to Eorlund, an ass - and Ja’kir’s inclined to agree with him - but he thinks he likes Eorlund.The other old man, Kodlak, was nice too. He wonders if the people he fought the giant with are around anywhere.
“So Vilkas always send newcomers on errands?” Ja’kir asks. Eorlund cracks a grin.
“Sure does,” Eorlund says. “As I said, kid’s an ass, but he’s decent most of the time. Don’t worry too much about it. They were all whelps once, they just don’t like to talk about it. Remember, nobody rules anybody in the Companions.”
Ja’kir nods, then thinks on this. “Wait… how does that work? No one’s in charge or anything?” Eorlund shakes his head.
“Not sure how they’ve managed it, but they have,” Eorlund confirms. “No leaders since Ysgramor. Kodlak is the Harbinger, and he’s a sort of advisor for the whole group, but everyone makes his own decisions, or her own decisions.” Ja’kir nods, and tries to think of something else to ask that won’t reveal how dumb he is.
“That’s actually really cool,” Ja’kir says. “So… anyone else this one should know? I mean… anyone else I should know?” Eorlund shrugs, yawns, and stretches.
“Well, there’s the Circle. They give out jobs and things,” Eorlund says, “at least I think that’s how it goes. Vilkas is on it. So’s Farkas, and Skjor, and Aela.” Ja’kir perks up instantly. He recognizes at least three of those names, even if he doesn’t particularly like Vilkas.
“Vilkas is an ass, but if it really comes down to it, he’ll have your back,” Eorlund continues. “He’s a good kid. So’s his brother, although his brother’s a lot nicer to begin with.” Ja’kir nods.
“Vilkas has a brother?” Ja’kir asks. Eorlund nods.
“Farkas,” he says, and quite a few things, not least of which is how much those two look alike, finally make sense. “The two of them are twins. Practically grew up in Jorrvaskr, although they’re almost as different as you can get. If you ever just need to talk to someone, Farkas is your man. Kid’s got a heart of gold.”
“Okay,” Ja’kir agrees, hoping Eorlund will keep talking. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, he’s an old man, and old men love talking. Old women, too, but that’s beside the point.
“Skjor has been with the Companions longer than anyone else, except Kodlak and my brother, and my brother doesn’t fight anymore,” Eorlund continues. “He’s a good man, although you don’t want to get him angry. Trust me on that.” Ja’kir decides to listen to Eorlund. He probably knows what’s up. He’s been here for a while.
“And Aela?” Ja’kir prompts. “What about her?” Eorlund shrugs.
“She’s… interesting,” Eorlund says quietly. “A bit more of a… lone wolf, if you get my meaning.” He grins, like this is some sort of joke, and Ja’kir doesn’t get it.
“Okay,” Ja’kir agrees, pretending that he gets it. He still doesn’t get it, and he’s pretty sure Eorlund knows that perfectly well.
“Anyway, speaking of Aela, can you do me a favor and bring this down to her?” Eorlund asks, hefting the shield like it’s nothing and passing it to Ja’kir. He makes the mistake of assuming it weighs nothing, and nearly falls over from the sheer weight of it. “I would do it myself, but… my wife is in mourning, and I need to get back to her. Our son…”
Ja’kir sees the shadow of grief pass over the blacksmith’s face, and he nods quickly.
“Yeah,” Ja’kir agrees. “I got it. No problem. This one’ll take it to her… uh. Where do you think she’ll be?” Eorlund thinks on this a moment.
“This time of day… probably in Jorrvaskr. Companions don’t like to miss meals, and neither do I… I should get going. Feel free to come up if you get too lost in the future.”
Eorlund nods to the sun, which is slowly inching closer and closer to the horizon. Ja’kir’s eyes widen. He nods to Eorlund, manages what he hopes passes for a goodbye, and lugs the shield down the steps. It’s heavy. Really heavy. He wonders how anyone can manage it, because he barely can.
With a grunt, he shoves open the door, nearly dropping the shield as he does so. Ja’kir looks around. It doesn't take him long to spot Aela’s messy red hair on the other side of the building, and he heads over. She’s talking with the man who gave Ja’kir directions when he first came in, and they both look over as Ja’kir approaches, swearing profusely under his breath.
“Eorlund sent this,” Ja’kir gasps out, dropping the shield. It clatters to the ground louder than Ja’kir would have liked, and Aela picks it up almost as effortlessly as Eorlund had. Ja’kir would have glared at her, but he definitely didn't have the energy right now. “How can you just-?” Words fail him, so he gestures to the shield. Aela smirks.
“Practice, mostly, but as it turns out, using a bow tends to build your upper body strength,” Aela says with more than a bit of amusement in her voice. She examines it, then sets it aside. “So, Kodlak let you in? Skjor, pay up.” The older guy - Skjor, apparently, scowls.
“I didn't think the warrior who helped you with the giant was a Khajiit, otherwise I wouldn't have taken that bet,” Skjor mutters as he passes a few septims Aela’s way, eyeing Ja’kir suspiciously. “We’ll see how good you really are soon enough. Doesn't take a lot to impress Aela here, after all.” Aela glares at Skjor with a ferocity in her eyes that would make Ja’kir run like hell, but he doesn't even seem bothered.
“Go jump in a skeever-hole, Skjor,” Aela mutters. Ja’kir gulps, and wonders, not for the first time, if he's maybe in over his head.
“Vilkas said J- he said I wasn't too bad,” Ja’kir manages, tail twitching anxiously. “If that counts for anything?” Skjor shrugs.
“He's not easy to impress,” Skjor admits, “but anyway. Did someone show you where you’re sleeping yet, or…?” Ja’kir shakes his head, and Aela sighs.
“Guess we'd better fix that, then,” Aela mutters, then glances up and looks around. “Farkas!” Ja’kir recognizes the warrior that lumbers over, and he remembers that he and Vilkas are twins. They look alike, from what Ja’kir can tell they fight somewhat similarly, but that seems to be where the similarities end.
“You… did call me, right?” Farkas asks, looking confused. Ja’kir glances to Aela, then Skjor, and figures it must be some sort of inside joke. Skjor probably wouldn't look amused then.
“No, you're hearing things,” Aela says with a straight face, staring Farkas down. Farkas looks like he's about to panic when Aela finally cracks a sly grin. “Of course I called you, ice-brain. You remember Ja’kir from earlier, right?” Farkas nods.
“What's he doing here?” Farkas asks, prompting a groan from Aela. “Never mind. I’ll, uh, just-”
“Kodlak decided he'd make a good Companion,” Aela says flatly, “so any chance you could show him where the rest of the whelps bunk?” Farkas nods.
“Got it. This way,” Farkas says, turns, and heads down the stairs. Ja’kir follows him down, through a short maze of corridors, and to a rather large room with quite a few empty beds in it. Before Farkas enters, he glances back at Ja’kir. “I'm sorry, what's your name again? I’m… not good with names.” Ja’kir nods, understanding perfectly.
“Ja’kir,” he says. “You’re Farkas, right?” Farkas looks as relieved as Ja’kir feels. He nods.
“The one and only,” Farkas agrees, then lowers his voice. “Try and make friends with some of the other whelps, alright? They’ll explain what you haven't heard already.” He raps on the wall next to the door, then heads in. Ja’kir follows him, and looks around. The room he would have sworn was empty actually is anything but. There's a dark elf passed out in one of the bunks, a Nord with a bottle of mead who looks to be going that way, and a pair of girls - one Nord, one Imperial - playing some sort of card game on a blanket stolen from one of the spare beds.
Farkas clears his throat, and everyone except the dark elf glances his way, although the drunk Nord’s reaction is delayed significantly.
“This is the new kid, his name’s Ja’kir, be nice to him, and don't miss dinner,” Farkas says gruffly, looking pointedly at the drunk Nord. “That goes for everyone but Athis.” The Nord girl frowns.
“So Athis gets a pass on being mean, but I don't?” She asks. “Really?” Farkas groans.
“Njada, you know what I mean,” he says finally. “Don't kill each other.” With that, Farkas leaves, and Ja’kir is this close to going with him when the Imperial girl catches his eye and grins. Actually, she looks vaguely familiar.
“Hey, you made it,” she says cheerfully. “Remember me?” Ja’kir nods even as he's not actually sure.
“Um, yes,” Ja’kir manages awkwardly as he scours his brain for the girl’s name. “It's… Ria, right?” Ria nods enthusiastically.
“Yeah! I'm Ria, this is Njada, drunk guy is Torvar, and the guy passed out over there is Athis.”
Ja’kir nods, and takes a deep breath. “J- I’m. Ja’kir.” If Ria notices his inner terror, she doesn't say anything, and he's so, so grateful for that. He takes another deep breath, lets it out, and takes a seat on the blanket next to her. “What are you playing?”
“War,” Njada says curtly. “It's only two players.” Ja’kir nods, and makes a mental note not to cross her in the future. If he remembers correctly, it was her and Athis who were fighting when he first came in, and she's most likely the reason he's currently passed out.
“Fine by me, this one- I don't know how to play,” Ja’kir admits. His tail curls behind him. “So… how long do we have?” Njada answers again, this time with a shrug, leaving Ria to give a better answer.
“Few minutes, long enough for at least one more game,” Ria says, glancing Njada’s way with an eager glint in her eyes. “Njada, you’re going down!” Njada actually smiles, ever so slightly, and only for a moment or two.
“We’ll see about that,” Njada says, laying down her first card. Ria does the same, and Njada’s eyes go wide. “Shit.”
In the end, Ria wins by a considerable margin, and Torvar has to be forcibly dragged out by Njada, who’s significantly stronger than she looks.
Ja’kir unnecessarily reminds himself to never, ever piss Njada off if he values his life or what little pride he has.