Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The man clad in steel and with a huge greatsword strapped to his back leant relaxed against one of the wooden columns holding the roof over the terrace, sipping at his drink. Jergen had just come back to Jorrvaskr from an unexciting and tedious job, hunting down a criminal through the dense woods around Falkreath who had successfully bribed a guard to escape was nothing less than glorious. He was dirty, tired and aching and had dropped his pack as soon as he came in, grabbed a bottle of ale and left the Companion’s hall towards the abandoned backyard again to get a few moments of peace for himself. And now he stood still in the shadows the deep evening sun threw over the paved place, trying to keep as quiet as possible, and still a spectator would have wondered how the soft expression on his face would fit into his martial appearance, skin and armour smeared with blood and grime.

But his eyes were fixed on a niche in the wall around the yard, a corner that was already veiled in darkness. But he had senses that could pierce through it, and he not only saw the small body curled into a ball against the wall, he could also hear the suppressed sniffs and quiet sobs that came from it.

A gentle smile spread over his lips as he pushed himself finally off the column and went over, hunching down in front of the child. Bright, puffy eyes half hidden behind dark hair that urgently needed a cut stared alarmed into his, the boy obviously appalled that he was found and disturbed in his hiding place.

The warrior crossed his arms on his own knees.

“What’s the matter, Farkas, hm? Tilma has made fresh sweetrolls. Shouldn’t you be inside by now?”

The boy huddled up only closer, his arms curled around his shins, shaking his head. In his fist he clenched a folded piece of parchment, the paper crumpled and moist from his sweaty grip, the other hand coming up and wiping his nose with his sleeve. He looked so miserable that the man refrained from admonishing him. Instead he gave him a curious look and stretched out a hand.

“What do you have there?”

But the boy jerked back violently, hiding the hand with the parchment behind his back.

“Nothing!”

Concern flitted over the man’s face. Writings of all kinds could be dangerous. What if this was a mage’s scroll with a spell the boy could accidentally release? Or something that didn’t belong to him, something private with things he shouldn’t know?

“Tell me, Farkas. Please.”

The boy looked pleadingly at him. “It’s mine. Really.”

He laid a reassuring hand on the boy’s knee. “I believe you. But what is it? I just don’t want you to get into trouble…”

“Just a letter.” It wasn’t more than a mumble.

“A letter? Someone wrote you a letter?”

Surprise stood in the man’s face. He knew the boy wouldn’t lie to him. He rarely lied… sometimes he tried to, or at least tried to hide things his brother had decided that they had to be kept secret, but even then he was seldom successful. He was a terrible liar, every hint of bad conscience easily readable from his face. In this moment, he didn’t have a bad conscience, that much Jergen saw. He was sad and forlorn, in the heartbreaking way only a child could be sad and forlorn.

But a letter? To a seven-year-old? That caused so much distress? Worry spread over Jergen’s face, a concern that turned into confusion when he heard the next muttered words.

“Not someone. Vilkas.”

And suddenly the boy’s eyes all but swam in tears, avoiding desperately the scrutinising gaze of his stepfather, his lower lip trembling.

Jergen hid his astonishment. “Oh. Yes, of course. Vilkas.”

He had absolutely no idea what was going on here, but it was certainly strange. Why in Oblivion should one brother write a letter to the other, with the twins sticking together all the time like the two sides of a creme treat anyway? They lived in the same house, shared a room at night, trained and played and learned together during the days. And, even more importantly, why did it turn Farkas into a trembling heap of misery?

Once again Jergen doubted his own ability to take the father’s role on the boys. It wasn’t that he didn’t love them… since he had rescued them three years ago from a cage in a necromancer’s den and brought them to Jorrvaskr, they had wormed their ways into his heart, both of them in their own, unique way. Farkas with his easygoing cheerfulness, his kind heart and openness and his exuberant enthusiasm for the lifestyle of the warriors of Jorrvaskr. And Vilkas with his probing curiosity that could drive the adults around him into madness and the deep vulnerability he hid behind an attitude that was as cute as precocious now and would become self-opinionated and dogmatic later if they weren’t careful with him. If they didn't look so obviously alike, nobody would believe they were twins.

He loved them, he really did, and although he knew that neither he nor the other Companions would ever be able to replace their parents, he was certain that a childhood in Jorrvaskr wasn’t that bad. He did his best, after all, and the kids were accepted by everybody. It was more that he often simply didn’t understand them. Kodlak had once burst out with laughter as he admitted his helplessness towards the boys, his inability to react appropriately when they did child stuff and he simply didn’t know why they suddenly threw a tantrum, started to hit on each other or broke into heartbreaking crying. More than once he had been full of thankfulness when Tilma had simply shoved him away and unpretentiously taken care of the boys. He didn’t know if it was because she was a woman or because she was no warrior, but where he behaved only awkward, she managed easily to calm the waves.

The same helplessness gripped him now as he faced the quietly sniffing boy.

In the end, he knelt down and drew the child into his lap, cursing himself for a moment that he hadn’t even taken the time to discard his breastplate. That much hew knew at least, cuddling like this worked nearly always with Farkas and nearly never with Vilkas. He tilted his head to be able to look into the boy’s face, trying to sound gentle and reassuring.

“What’s that letter about? Can you tell me? Or is it a secret?”

It was obviously the wrong question. Suddenly tears streamed freely over the boy’s cheeks again, leaving trails in the dust and dirt the day had left behind, but he didn’t losen his grip on the folded paper, clenched his small fist in a way that would make it unreadable soon.

“It’s a secret. Vilkas said so,” he sobbed, hiding his face against the man’s chest.

Something dawned on Jergen. If someone had told him what this was about and if it had been about someone else, he would have found it hilariously funny. But this was his little boy, the child who could spend hours with his wooden training sword, shouting expletives at the training dummy he had picked up from the warriors around him and reacting with a proud grin when Skjor, Kodlak or one of the others patted his back in jovial approval. The boy who would haul around buckets of water for Tilma he was barely able to lift himself when he decided that she looked tired and who was the only one able to calm his brother when Vilkas woke up screaming from his nightmares. But he was also the boy who still believed that Ysgramor had sailed right up to Whiterun over the endless plains and turned his ship with his bare hands to live under it, who found stories of dragons and daedra much more fascinating than the history of his own family and who had already wasted a fortune in parchments making funny ink blobs during their lessons with Vignar instead to listen and learn. All of this while Vilkas had already read through half of the little library in the Harbinger’s quarters and wrote lists of things he intended to do every day just to show off that he could.

He held the shaking body firmly, absentmindedly realising that he wasn’t quite so small any more, and stroked soothingly over the dark tangle of hair until the sobbing had subsided into an erratic hiccup.

“Tell me, Farkas,” he said quietly, “do you know what the letter is about?”

Gently he laid a finger under his chin, forcing the boy to meet his serious gaze. Huge silvery eyes met his, dark with distress. And a trace of bad conscience.

“No,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

"He is what?"

Fury flared in Jergen's eyes as he sat across the man he had trusted to educate his sons. Only minutes ago he had dealt with a sobbing boy who for the first time in his short life didn't want to sleep in the same room as his brother. Who was afraid of what his twin would ask him and deeply ashamed of his own inability to read the letter he had received. When he stretched out his arm and held the crumpled piece of paper that caused so much distress towards his stepfather, pleading him to tell him what was written in it, his childlike desperation broke Jergen's heart, but he refused.

"It's a secret, Farkas," he said quietly, rocking back and forth with the boy on his knees, "you're not allowed to show it to me." This was a serious lesson as well. As much as he burst with curiosity and pity, he didn't have the right to intrude into other people's business... not even into the business of his sons, not as long as he wasn't certain that there was danger ahead. And what danger could lie in a secret between seven-year-olds? But they had to learn how important it was to keep their mouths shut when necessary - especially Farkas, who was notorious for always saying out loud what went through his head. Companions had to be able to keep a secret.

In the end, he had advised Farkas just to keep quiet, to tell his brother that this matter was too serious to talk about and that he'd answer his letter in the same manner. Seeing the eyes of the boy fill with tears again, he put him down and knelt before him.

"You will read this letter all on your own, Farkas. And you will answer it. I swear. I'll help you."

Huge eyes stared up into his face. "But... if I can't? Vignar says I'll never learn it..."

Jergen gritted his teeth in an effort to stay calm. "You will. If you really want it, you'll learn it in no time."

Suddenly the boy held himself very straight.

"Warrior's oath?" His bright voice trembled, with tiredness, anxiety and excitement.

"Warrior's oath," Jergen said sternly, holding out his hand and clasping the boy's forearm in the traditional greeting. The answering squeeze was surprisingly strong, although the little fingers didn't even reach around his arm.

And now he had to find out how it had come to this disaster in the first place.

Vignar was as much a battlehardened warrior as every Companion, but he had only recently returned from the war, a highly decorated officer of the Imperial Legion rendered useless by an arrow through his lung, forced to retire against his will. For the last months he had been recovering, trying to get back his breath and his strength with the tenacious stubbornness of someone who had lost what constituted his life, but although noone dared to say it into his face, it became more and more obvious that the injury had been too severe and that he would never become his old self again. Noone had seen him in his heavy armour for weeks, noone had seen him swing his impressive battle axe, not even in training.

But besides being a warrior, he was also a scholar. He had travelled back and forth through Tamriel, seen things and visited places nobody else in Jorrvaskr could even imagine. He had been the historian and annalist of Ysgramor's ancient order even before he went out to serve the Empire in its fight against the Thalmor, and the experiences during the war had only deepened his interest in history and foreign cultures. As a scholar, as the keeper of their ancient knowledge he was still highly respected.

Jergen had thought him perfect to school the boys, to teach them letters and numbers, to read and write, the history of their homeland and the tenets of the Companions. It would give the elder man a new purpose and provide the twins with the knowledge they'd need later if they wanted to become something more than simple farmers or mine-workers. Even if they stayed in Jorrvaskr, they'd need this knowledge. Every Companion had to be able to read the contracts with their clients and to sign with his own name.

And now this low-brow dared to tell him right into his face that one of his pupils was...

"A lost cause. Yes."

Vignar leant relaxed in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and arched a challenging eyebrow at the fuming man.

"See, Jergen," he said soothingly, taking a sip from his tankard, "I'm just trying to be honest. Your Vilkas here, that's a bright head, we all know that. Probably too clever for his own good, the questions he asks are scary sometimes. No seven-year-old should ask such questions. But Farkas... I like him. I really do. He is endearing, and he has his talents. Give him a blade, and he will give you thrashing. Or try to, at least. He beat Aela two weeks ago, you know that? Though that girl is better with a bow than a sword..." His voice trailed off, but then he pulled himself together and met the glare of his opposite calmly. "But he doesn't get it. All these things for which he has to sit on his behind and concentrate and work with his brain, they're just not for him. Not sure if he can't or if he doesn't want to... both, probably. But he doesn't show any discipline and no interest at all. He doesn't even try."

A furious scowl formed on Jergen's face. "You really want to tell me that Farkas is too dumb to learn to read. And even worse, you told him that he's too dumb to learn it." He tried to swallow his anger, but it broke out of him. "Shor's balls, he's seven years old! What do you expect, a soldier you can order around?"

Vignar eyed the raging man over the brim of his tankard, not at all affected by his outbreak. "It works quite well with Vilkas. And... Divines, Jergen, why force him? Many people can't read or write. Why put this effort into something he will be lousy at all his life?"

"He is not dumb!" Jergen thundered, rising to his feet and bracing himself threateningly on the table. "Give him a dozen things to get at the market, and he will bring exactly what you want! His brain works fabulously... just differently from his brother's!"

"Why so defensive, friend? He's not even your son. Who knows what will become of him."

Jergen sat down again, clenching his own mug between his hands to keep them calm. He didn't want to blow it completely with the elder warrior, but he also wasn't willing to give up on his stepson. And he was furious that Vignar dropped the boy so easily.

"No, unfortunately I'm gone too often and too long to be them the father they need, or I would have realised much earlier that you neglect him just because he doesn't live up to your standards. But I have taken over responsibility for these boys, and you all have agreed to help, and they will learn whatever we can teach them. Both of them. And if you shun the effort although you promised, I will do it myself!"

"Well, good luck with that. But don't come crying in a few weeks when he still writes his own name with a V just because his brother does the same."

Jergen gritted his teeth. "Farkas will learn to read, Vignar, and if it's the last thing I do. And you know why? Because Vilkas will make his life a living hell if he doesn't keep up. He already does. Precious Vilkas with his bright head is not only frighteningly clever, he's also an obnoxious little brat."

The man took his bottle and stormed out of the door, ignoring Vignar's pretentious smile. Outside, he dropped heavily on a bench and took a long gulp, breathing in deeply the cool, fresh night air in an attempt to calm down. The darkness and quiet around him soothed his nerves. He wasn't even entirely sure why he had lost it like that. Perhaps Vignar was right. Perhaps he really had no idea how to treat the boys, perhaps he did it all wrong. Perhaps Farkas should just do what he could do best, hone the talents he had and become a mercenary or soldier. And Vilkas would go his own way.

But he knew it wasn't so simple. Deep inside he knew that the boys would never leave one another, and to force them apart would end in disaster. They were dependent on each other, they relied on each other, and not only because of the traumatic experience of losing their parents to the experiments of evil mages they shared. As different as they were, he had the distinct feeling that the ties between the twins would only become stronger over the years. It was his responsibility to make sure that they had equal chances and equal choices when they grew older and had to make their own decisions. He couldn't allow that Farkas was left behind.

The clapping of the door interrupted his train of thought, his senses recognising the scent of his shield-sister at once. But she wasn't alone, the redhaired man beside her having slung an arm around her waist, and when she sat down beside him, her husband took the seat across from them.

"Trouble?" she asked softly.

Jergen sighed deeply, glad for the company. If anyone would understand, it were these two. "Yes. Good to see you, Liv." He nodded at the man. "And you, Aksel."

"What's the matter? I heard you yell at Vignar."

"Vignar is an ignorant fool," he grunted, burying his forehead in the heels of his palms.

She nudged him gently. "Spit it out."

"Farkas has difficulties with his lessons. He doesn't learn like he should... no, he just doesn't learn as fast as Vilkas, and Vignar dares to tell him he's too stupid. Gods, what kind of teacher is he to say something like that to a child!"

"He's no teacher at all. He has no experience with children. Just that heap of knowledge he sits on." Dislike quivered in her voice.

"But that's not all. Not only can Vilkas already read and write and Farkas cannot, now Vilkas has started to write letters to his brother. Well, one letter so far, but Farkas was a mess when I found him tonight." Jergen looked helplessly into the sympathetic faces of the couple.

"I've no idea what to do now. All I know is that Farkas has to learn to read... and fast."

"He's only seven, Jergen," Aksel said calmly, "you really worry because he can't read yet?"

"No!" he flared up, "not because he can't read! I worry because he can't and Vilkas can!" He turned to the woman beside him, driving anxiously with his fingers through his hair. "You know the boys, Liv. You know how close they are. I want them to learn stuff like that together. I don't want Vilkas to rush ahead and Farkas to be left behind. Tonight I've seen where that leads."

"Farkas will easily catch up when he gives him his next thrashing," the man grunted, "that's all that matters in these halls anyway."

Jergen had to laugh. In a way, the wiry, temperamental hunter who only occasionally visited his wife in Jorrvaskr had a refreshingly outside look on life as a Companion. "It's not so easy, I'm afraid. Vilkas has made good progress recently. He still insists to train with this giant sword and he still stabs his own feet with it, but he has made progress. Holy Daedra, that boy is stubborn. Every beating Farkas gives him only spurs him on. I wish it was the same the other way around."

Aksel lifted an eyebrow. "Dear... you've no idea how glad I am that Aela is a single child," he said dryly to his wife, making her laugh out loud and Jergen chuckle.

"You know... I'm not that old yet..."

He recoiled, lifting his hands in feigned horror. "Don't you even think about it!"

"Why not?" Her grin was mischievious.

"Because..." The man looked as if he wasn't entirely sure if his wife was serious or not. Finally, he leant forwards, nodding at Jergen. "Just listen to him."

Jergen grinned at their bickering. They were a weird couple, the hunter and the Companion, weird but obviously happy. They had a strange arrangement with her living in Jorrvaskr and him staying in a small hut in the southern woods, more than a day's journey away, and with their daughter splitting her time between both parents, but it seemed to work. One day the lanky, overconfident girl would join her mother in the ranks of the Companions, and it was already clear that she wouldn't have difficulties to find her place with her fierceness and the way her father honed her skills as a huntress, impressive already at the age of ten. But until then, she was only a guest - a guest who clashed regularly with the twins who defended Jorrvaskr as their home territory fiercely against the intrusion of the only other child far and wide.

Liv turned to him with a gentle smile. "I've an idea. I was gonna head out tomorrow... a couple of days with my daughter, perhaps into the Eastmarch to the hot springs. How about I take Vilkas with us? You have him off your heels and can take care of Farkas, and he will have a nice challenge. See that he's not the best in everything he starts."

The man stared at her from wide eyes, thankfulness welling up in him, but then he shook his head. "That's an awesome idea, Liv, really. But you know he's not ready for such a trip, hunting with you two he will only be a hindrance. And... you need your time together, Aela and you. Don't ruin it for her."

She became serious. "I'm not entirely selfless with this offer, Jergen. Aela is far too solitary. That comes with the way we live, but she needs to spend some time with other kids, and urgently. I know the two are not best friends, and she will do everything to act the big girl and show him how it's done correctly. But if he's really as stubborn as you say, he will try even harder to keep up."

Jergen thought about it for a moment, then gave a short laugh. "He will hate it."

"Yep," she grinned.

"Aela will hate it."

"Probably, yep."

"You will hate it."

"No," she snickered, "I will have lots of fun."

Chapter Text

They hadn't even left Whiterun, and Liv wasn't already so certain any more that she'd have fun during the next days. When the woman and her charges approached the gate, the guard opened it eagerly for them, and as his gaze wandered over the small fellowship, he gave her a sympathetic glance.

"Good hunting... Companions," he said, his smile turning into a grin even visible behind the closed helmet when he caught her rolling her eyes.

The day was bleak, the barely risen sun hidden behind heavy clouds that released a drizzling rain. All of them were protected by thick cloaks and oiled leather, but nevertheless it would drench them through and through in a few hours. Not that they weren't used to it... well, Liv was, no Companion could take the weather into account if they ever wanted to get anything done. But they had a trip of several days ahead of them, and the faces of the children trailing after her were even darker than the sky.

Liv could understand that Aela wasn't thrilled about Vilkas' company and that she didn't understand why he had to join them at all for this trip. Usually they savoured the time they could spend with only the two of them, and Liv was proud of her daughter. The girl worked hard, helping her father to fulfil his contract with the Jarl of Falkreath to supply his court with fresh game and learning whatever he could teach her. Time with her mother was rare and precious, and time they could actually spend together and to their own likings was even scarcer.

But the girl was proud and assertive bordering on aggressiveness, showing indifference at best and disdain at worst for everyone she deemed unworthy of her attention - and she had a very concise opinion about who was worthy. All she knew was the harsh environment of the woods where she spent most of her time and the warrior's hall of Jorrvaskr. She always strived to prove herself – to her father as much as to the Companions, battlehardened warriors who only used the training ground to keep themselves smooth during times of leisure, the best Skyrim had to offer in terms of fighting skill and finesse. These warriors were her yardstick, knowing she'd be one of them one day, and everybody who didn't fit into this scheme wasn't worth her attention. Especially not her peers amongst the children of Whiterun.

And especially not the twins that pestered her every stay in Jorrvaskr. And of these two, most of all not Vilkas, the smaller of the boys, no match to her except with his sharp tongue.

Liv regarded the interaction between the two kids with discomfort. Usually they were able to avoid each other, with Aela training with the adults and the twins sticking to themselves. That wouldn't work during this trip, though, and a trace of doubt if it was really a bright idea to let these two bullheads loose on each other emerged in her mind.

It had already started when they gathered in the mead hall for a brief breakfast. Liv and Aela were already ready to go, and so was Vilkas when he finally came up the stairs from the living quarters – clad in simple leather pants and a sleeveless leather jerkin over a cotton tunic, his cloak rolled into a bundle and strapped to the top of his small knapsack. On his back, he carried a willow bow fit for his size, a small leather quiver and one of Skjor's old longswords – a simple iron blade that he wore like a claymore.

Aela, still chewing on a mouthful of porridge, had pointed at him and began laughing. A condescending laugh that mirrored the foul mood that had only grown since her mother had told her that they'd not be alone during this trip.

"What d'you plan to do with that, snowberry?"

Liv knew the scowl that settled on Vilkas' face only hid his insecurity and hurt pride, and that he would easily be provoked by her remarks. Obviously something Aela was fully aware of.

"Kill something," the boy sneered, helping himself to an apple and a loaf of bread. And with a glance towards the mug standing in front of Aela, he added, "milkdrinker."

"At least I could wield it like it's meant to be," she said full of disdain, "and not use it like a chopping axe."

The boy's cheeks blushed with anger, and Jergen, who had come upstairs shortly after his stepson, laid a calming hand on his shoulder. He let his gaze wander over the scene and finally met Liv's eyes. Unspoken understanding was exchanged between the two adults before he bowed down to the boy.

"Aela is right, Vilkas. For this trip, you need something more practical."

"But it is practical. Eorlund had it sharpened yesterday."

"No, it's too heavy and too clumsy." Jergen hunched down to be on eyelevel with Vilkas. "You won't be hunting only deer and rabbits this time, Vilkas. There will be wolves and bears. Perhaps even a sabrecat. Perhaps something worse. You don't want any of these to come close enough for that sword to use."

An image flashed through the mind of the boy, of himself standing proud and fearless, impaling one of the huge predatory cats on his blade. But... Kodlak had the pelt of one of these beasts hanging on the wall in his room, with the claws and the skull still attached. They were really huge.

Slowly, he nodded. And his eyes grew wide when Jergen fumbled at his belt, unstrapped the sheath of his dagger and handed it to him.

"Here, take this instead. But bring it back, it's precious." A conspiratorial sparkle glimmered in his eyes.

"But that's your Skyforge dagger!"

Only full-fledged Companions were allowed to own weapons made from the famous Skyforge steel, blades made by the master smith at the ancient forge that had belonged to the Companions since Ysgramor's time. They were of exceptional quality, working tools of the warriors as much as badge of their affiliation, and every new member only got his first Skyforge weapon during a formal ceremony that introduced them officially into the order. Vilkas had already witnessed several of these rituals, he knew how reverently the Companions treated their gear, and now he took the ornated leather sheath with equal awe.

"It's only on loan. Take good care of it, okay?"

Vilkas nodded again, shooting a triumphant glance towards Aela. Who had watched the scene with obvious envy and now glared at her mother.

"Your daggers are perfectly fine, daughter," Liv chuckled.

When the company had finally left, Jergen took a last swig from his tankard and went down to wake his other son. Farkas was a late riser, always had been, and he had only recognised with half an open eye that Vilkas got up before him. But when Jergen now shook his shoulder gently, he woke with a start.

"Where's Vilkas?"

"Out hunting, with Liv and Aela. They'll be gone for a couple of days."

Contradicting emotions flitted over the boy's face. Disappointment that his brother had gone without saying goodbye and that for some reason they didn't go on such an exciting trip together, relief that the blasted letter could rest for the moment and bewilderment why his stepfather stood expectantly and with crossed arms in front of his bed while he crawled out of his furs. He didn't need help to get ready for the day, but now it seemed as if Jergen was waiting for him.

When he rubbed his eyes and grabbed some lose cotton breeches lying on a chair beside his bed, Jergen shook his head.

"No. Leather pants and jacket. You're gonna accompany me on a job."

"On a job?"

"Yes," Jergen smirked, "on a job. We'll be gone for a few days too. Get your pack ready."

Excitement bloomed on Farkas' face, and he answered the man's smile brightly, suddenly wide awake. Jergen chuckled at the boy's enthusiasm, it never took much to lift his spirits. He had thought about what Vignar had said, and although he didn't approve the old man's conclusions, one of his observations had certainly been right: Farkas wasn't one to sit down and think. Or read. Or learn.

Jergen didn't have really a plan how to tackle the reading problem, but he hoped that the knowledge that they were out on a job and the exertion of long marches would give the boy the focus to concentrate on other things as well. He was convinced that Farkas was neither dumb nor lazy, and Vignar's remark that he didn't show any interest and discipline had made him especially angry.

Although it was true that he was more playful and frisky than his brother, that didn't mean that he didn't want to learn and that he didn't put any effort into it when he deemed it worthwhile. Jergen remembered vividly an incident two years ago, when Farkas had been absolutely fascinated by a sniper duel between Aela and her mother, both shooting arrows with alarming speed and precision at lumps of clay Skjor threw crisscross over the training yard. Only a day later he had not asked, but demanded to get his own bow, he had asked Liv to show him how to use it and not stopped practicing until he had memorised the motion sequences, how to draw and aim, how to breathe to keep his posture and eyes steady and how to focus the arrow's trajectory. He had done nothing else for days, drilled himself all on his own, just taking quietly the occasional advice the warriors watching him in awe provided, until he was able to hit the bull's eye of the straw dummy several times in a row. Everybody had been impressed... but then, Vignar hadn't yet been back at Jorrvaskr to witness it.

He just needed an incentive to pique his interest, and that was given with the mysterious letter. And as sitting down with ink and parchment obviously didn't work, they would find another way.

"Okay," Jergen said as the boy emptied his bowl of porridge, "we gotta go to Dragonsbridge, clean out a skeever infestation."

"Skeever?" Farkas laughed, swallowing hastily before he spoke on. "They need Companions for a few skeever?"

"I know, I could have sent you alone just as well," Jergen chuckled, "but they pay us, and so we will take care of it." He sat down across from the boy and searched his eyes seriously. "It will us take three days to get there if we hike cross country, and another three days back. And when we're here again, you will know much more about those blasted letters than you do now, Farkas. Promised."

Jergen looked sternly at his son. He wanted him to know that this trip wasn't meant to be just some quality time spent together, but that he was expected to work. The excited grin left the child's face, replaced by the shadow of insecurity and doubt. But then he nodded silently, a crease of firm determination forming between his brows, and hurried to finish his breakfast.

"Okay. Tell me what you know already, Farkas." They had left Whiterun behind, the weather had brightened up at least a bit, and they had settled into a comfortable stride side by side that made it possible even for the boy to span quite a distance. Perfect conditions to start an earnest man-to-man talk.

The boy was quiet for some time, then answered hesitantly. "Some of these signs... these letters. But I always forget what they mean. And how to put them together."

"Which letters do you know?"

He thought for a moment, then his face lit up, and his index drew a huge circle into the air before him. "That's an O!"

"Yeah," Jergen smiled, "that's easy, isn't it? When we say O, our lips make exactly such a circle. Anything else?"

He painted the shape of a sharp angle, the tip pointing to the ground. "V! That's what Vilkas starts with!"

"Exactly! Do you also know the first letter of your own name?"

The boy's face was full of doubt. "It's not V, is it?"

"No, it isn't. Vilkas starts with Vvv and Farkas with Fff. It sounds different, doesn't it?"

Jergen watched as Farkas' mouth formed silent syllables while hopping at the same time over a narrow boulder without losing a step. "Yep," he said finally, glancing up into his father's face, "Vilkas sounds like... Vignar. And Farkas like..." he bit his lip in concentration. "Fralia!" His expectant face made Jergen laugh out loud, and he patted the boy's shoulder in approval.

"You got it!"

Too stupid my ass.

"Okay." Jergen had an idea. They didn't have the means to practice letters anyway during their march, but they could practice their meaning. "I give you a sound, and you give me a name that starts with it. Forget the letters for the moment."

"Forget the letters? But Vignar says I can do nothing without them!"

Vignar is an ignorant fool. Jergen bit his tongue before he said it out loud.

"Yes, forget the letters. They're just signs... symbols, and we'll come back to them later. Now we practice what they mean. Gimme a name with an Aaa!"

"Askar!"

"Very good. And now... Lll!"

"Liv!" the boy whooped, "that's easy!"

"Gimme a Kkk!"

"Kodlak!" He beamed at his father, obviously having fun with this game. "And then comes an O!"

Too stupid my ass.

"Great! Give me a name that starts with an Ooo."

The boy racked his brain, but obviously in search for a correct name, not because he didn't know what was expected of him.

A grin spread finally over his face. "Olava."

Jergen barely hid his astonishment. He had expected to hear Olfrid, one of the older boys part of the group of children that always rampaged through Whiterun together, or Olaf, the kind guard at the gate who had a watchful eye on them. He didn't even know that Farkas knew the socalled Madwoman of Whiterun at all and wondered briefly if this was a reason to worry. But then he decided that it wasn't, at least not right now, and answered the grin brightly.

"I tell you, Farkas, at the end of this trip you will not only read the letter you got, but write your own. Gimme a Ccc!"

"Skjor!"

Damn.

But it wasn't wrong, was it? Forget the letters, he had said. Especially the weird ones, like C, or Q, Y or W. Really, who had the braindead idea to call a letter doubleyu?

Soon they got into a rhythm of question and answer that matched their strides, and when they went out of names of people they knew, the simply expanded to names from stories and myths Farkas had heard during long evenings of tales and songs, and when those were depleted as well, they went over to animals, plants and whatever came to their mind. And it didn't take long that the boy not only identified most of the initial sounds correctly, but also sounds in the middle of a word.

When Jergen assessed from the position of the eerie patch of brightness behind the clouds that it was time for a rest, he sent Farkas ahead towards a lone tree that loomed in the distance, ordering him to gather some wood and start a fire. The plains of Whiterun were full of small game that would make a fabulous snack, but with the boy chatting and laughing by his side, he'd have no chance to catch it. As the boy ran away and he drew his bow, searching for a rabbit, a pheasant or a gopher, he had to smile. As different as the twins may have been, in one point they were similar: both were stubborn to a fault. Both would never admit that something was too hard for them to do or to learn, both would never admit that they were too tired or weak or small to do something they really wanted. As much as Vilkas would never abandon his far too large training sword although everybody told him that with his slender, lean physique he was much better suited to wield a smaller, lighter weapon, Farkas had the same kind of determination. It just had to be woken. He had been frustrated and discouraged by Vignar's attitude, but it seemed as if his enthusiasm was back.

Jergen felt a strange sense of pride – not only because he knew now that Farkas was neither too dumb nor too lazy and that Vignar had been proven wrong, but because he had found a way to motivate the boy. It hadn't taken that much, just a bit of encouragement and a sense of achievement, but he was proud that it was him who had instilled this new confidence into his son.

When they had settled at the fire and Farkas had taken over the staked rabbit to roast it, Jergen leant relaxed back against the trunk of the tree and popped open a bottle of mead.

"Okay," he said casually, "one more exercise, and if you do it right, you get both of the legs." The boy who knelt close to the flames turned to him, a streak of ash smeared over his face that showed a cheeky grin.

"And a swig of your mead."

"My mead?" Jergen chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't get brazen, boy. It's not solstice." Last winter solstice had been the first time the boys had been allowed a small swig of mead for the celebration. Jergen had hoped that they wouldn't like it, but unfortunately this hope had been dashed soon. They were true Nords, after all.

"Alright. Your name starts with which sound?"

"Fff." The answer came quick like a shot, the attention of the boy set again on the rabbit. Letters were important, but food was even more so.

"And then?" The spinning of their midday snack stopped suddenly as the boy turned to his father, bewilderment in his face.

"And then?"

"Yes. What comes after Fff? And don't let it scorch."

The boy resumed the rotation of the stick, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Aaa?"

"Yep." Jergen tried not to show his excitement. The boy had obviously grasped the concept of putting the letters together. Just without letters. "And next?"

Farkas' mouth formed silent syllables. "Kkk."

"No, that's wrong."

He started so violently that the rabbit nearly flew off the stick, but Jergen just chuckled. "Say your name slowly. And clearly."

Farkas answered with a deep frown, but he pronounced carefully. "Far – Kas."

"Hear that? There's something between Aaa and Kkk. What sound is it?"

The boy said again, "Far – Kas," then his face lit up. "Rrr!"

"That's it! Okay, what do we have now?"

"Fff, Aaa, Rrr, Kkk." He paused, but only for a moment. "And then another Aaa. And Sss!" The triumphant grin that spread over the child's face was full of confidence, as if he was absolutely sure that he was right. A confidence that was confirmed by his father who moved to his side, took the stick out of his hand and laid a hand firmly on his shoulder.

"You, Sir, have just spelled your own name," Jergen said earnestly. "Congratulations. And now you only have to memorise the signs for the sounds, and you'll be able to read and write it as well. But as everybody knows, your memory is fabulous." He unsheathed his dagger and made a probing cut into the meat. "And now enough of that. Both legs for you, as promised."

They sat in comfortable silence, chewing contently on the grilled meat, a loaf of bread and a bit of cheese, and Jergen enjoyed the quiet while Farkas had his mouth full. His gaze lingered full of affection on the boy beside him. It had been a good idea to take him along, in his leather outfit and with bow and shortsword lying close at hand, he already looked like a little warrior. And the smear of grease and ash over his face could easily be mistaken as warpaint.

But when the boy tilted his head as if he sensed the scrutiny of the man and a mischievous grin plastered over his dirty face, he became suddenly alert.

"Jergen?"

"Yes?" he asked warily.

"If I can spell your name as well, do I get a sip of your mead?"

Jergen laughed out loud. That little brat. "No," he shook his head. "At least not now. Perhaps tonight, before bedtime. And after you've bathed."

Farkas' frown just added to his amusement. Yes, some things only came for a heavy price. Another lesson the boy would have to learn.

Chapter Text

Liv groaned inwardly when she heard the twig snap, but it wasn't this sound that made the deer run. It was the highpitched, startled gasp that came after it.

First one, then only after a split second all of the animals in the small herd became alert, heads jerking up, ears twitching. And as with a sudden command, all of them were in motion, staying together in a bulk and darting through the narrow underbrush. Far too soon the last doe had vanished from her sight, only the thrumming of the hooves still audible.

This should have been their dinner.

She strapped her bow to her back again with slow, controlled motions, trying to calm down the rising anger. The arrow that should have pierced into the eyesocket of one of the beasts still dangling losely between her fingers, she turned around, exhaling deeply.

"Vilkas," she sighed, "didn't I tell you to stay behind for now?"

The boy stared at her with wide, guilty eyes, his palm pressed to his mouth. "But Aela went as well. I just followed her," he whispered.

Liv tilted her head in surprise. "Aela?" Her eyes searched around, but her daughter came openly around a bush, not caring to be quiet any more, chewing on a grass stalk. "We would have gotten two of them if it weren't for him," she said with a challenge in her voice, waving condescendingly at the boy.

"I told you both to stay behind. I just wanted to get us some dinner." Liv's voice had lost the annoyance and became threateningly calm. This was serious. If she couldn't trust the children to do as they were told, they would bring them all into danger.

The girl stood there proudly, a fist resting on her hip. "I didn't make them run," she said smugly. "But if he can't even stay alone for a few minutes..."

Liv breathed deeply to keep her anger from exploding. It had been a horrible trip so far, and she had to admit that it was mostly her daughter who made the situation so strenuous.

And it made her wonder why the girl behaved so different, now that Vilkas was with them. Usually they were completely at ease with each other and always found plenty of things to speak about, Aela reporting enthusiastically everything she had done and learned during the weeks they had spent apart and squeezing every little tidbit of talk and gossip about events in Jorrvaskr out of her mother. The had a relaxed relationship, and it had even become stronger the older Aela became. Liv was aware that her daughter wasn't far from becoming a young woman, mature beyond her age with the responsibilities she had to carry, and she was grateful and proud of the trust and confidence the girl showed towards her.

But now the girl had been tight-lipped the whole day, trudging after her mother with a deep scowl, and when she spoke at all she complained - over the weather, why they didn't walk faster, why they had to carry the large tent, whey they had to rest more often than usual. She didn't talk to Vilkas, but it was obvious that she blamed him for everything.

In the end, tired of the silence and foul mood, Liv had called Vilkas to her side and forced him into a conversation. At first he had been taciturn and hesitating in his answers, but when Liv recounted the story of her latest mammoth hunt and how it had hurled one of her companions all over the place, he thawed recognisably, and suddenly she was confronted with a plethora of questions. How heavy and big are they? Which weapons to use best? How thick is their skin? Where to attack? Is it possible to kill a mammoth with a single strike? Can they really impale a man on their tusks? Is it possible to ride them? Do giants really make cheese from their milk?

He was absolutely enthusiastic about the topic, but he also had a nearly analytical way to ask his questions and think things through. And when they had gone from killing mammoths to giants and their lifestyle and he had asked why they were able to keep the huge beasts as cattle and humans were not, she had to admit that she was lost.

While Aela's scowl deepened even further, and Liv recognised it with unease.

She knew that the children didn't get along well. Some kind of competition was only normal, and of course Vilkas couldn't cope with her when it came to weapon and fighting skills – he had only started his own training and had nearly no experience with fights outside of Jorrvaskr's training ground. But although he generally was a quiet child, he could easily deal with her when it came to arguments, especially as Aela usually tried to win by yelling at him, and he wouldn't gift her a septim when she insisted on starting to pick on him. Especially not when his brother was involved.

But all of this was only normal behaviour between kids. The open hostility towards the younger boy and intractability towards her mother Aela showed now bothered Liv deeply.

She narrowed her eyes at her daughter. "I told you both to stay behind. When I tell you to stay behind, what do you think that is... a suggestion?"

"But I just wanted to help!" the girl yelled furiously.

"No!" Liv exploded, "you know the rules! What you're doing here is no help and you know it!"

She was startled by her own outbreak. Divines, these kids gnawed on her nerves, but she breathed in deeply in an effort to calm down, looking sternly into the girl's face. "You know the rules, Aela," she said finally in an earnest tone. "Of you two, you're the one with much more experience. You know how it works when we're out here. My word is law. I expect you to act accordingly."

The problem was, usually she didn't have to set laws. Usually they worked together, and Aela listened to her mother and took the advice she got without questioning. Usually she didn't have to order her around.

The girl met the woman's eyes with an unrelenting glare. "So now I have to play babysitter for the rest of the trip? You wouldn't have left me behind if not to watch out for him!"

Well... unfortunately she was right, Liv had to admit. They didn't get as far today as she had hoped, and with only the two of them they would have probably gotten their prey without difficulties. If she was honest, Vilkas had indeed hindered their speed as well as their hunt.

Looking over to the boy, she saw him standing silently, studying the ground between his feet, chewing on his lower lip. And he shivered from exhaustion. This day's march had demanded everything of him, and still he hadn't complained once.

She sighed. "No," she said, "Vilkas doesn't need a babysitter, and you will get opportunity to prove your skill. I just want us to have some fun, okay? We'll reach the springs tomorrow anyway." She made a step forwards and laid a hand on Aela's shoulder, strong enough to prevent her shrugging out of the grip. "And now let's set up camp and relax. Only dried meat for tonight, but it was a long day."

Her other arm came around Vilkas' shoulder, and she drew the children away to where they had dropped their packs. They were silent now, both of them, but while Aela slowly relaxed, Vilkas pulled quietly away from the touch and fell a few steps behind them.

They had a tense, bland dinner without much talking. Aela was a bit more relaxed when she set the tent together with her mother, but Vilkas nearly fell asleep while slicing potatoes for the stew that boiled over the fire. When Liv took his knapsack and unrolled his bedroll for him, he just nodded thankfully, exhaustion written into his face.

As soon as he had emptied his bowl, he rose, washed his face with the leftovers in his waterskin and retreated quietly.

"Vilkas?" Liv called after him.

He poked his head out of the flap once more. "Yes?"

Liv smiled at him. "You've done a good job today. Sleep well."

Aela and Liv didn't touch the events of the day in their conversation as they stayed at the fire, both enjoying the warmth of a herbal tea, one of Tilma's special mixtures. Liv enjoyed the togetherness with her daughter, and she enjoyed especially how they slowly found back to their usual lighthearted tone. But when Aela yawned heartily, stretched herself and shimmied out of her leather jacket to prepare for the night, she laid a hand on her wrist, holding her back.

"Be a bit nicer to him, Aela. Please," she said earnestly. The girl stiffened, anxious that her mother forced this topic on her now, but she squared her shoulders and answered Liv's gaze defiantly.

"Why did he have to come along at all?"

"Because..." Her voice trailed off. She couldn't just tell her daughter that she thought that his company would do her good. Although her behaviour today had shown clearly that she really needed to learn to get along with others, even if she didn't consider them equal.

"See, Aela... he's just a boy, and he's younger than you, and we all know you're much more skilled than he. But although he's only seven, he already knows a lot, and he tries. Remember how you had to toil sometimes, three years ago. Remember how your dad trained with you. Vilkas doesn't even have a father... and Jergen doesn't have the time to show him everything he has to learn."

"I know," the girl said casually, "he's only a foundling."

Her derogatory tone left Liv speechless. When she answered, her voice was threateningly calm. "What do you mean, only a foundling?"

"Well," the girl said defensively, "nobody knows where they come from. Who knows what their parents were. Perhaps they were necromancers themselves."

Liv slowly put away her tankard, turned to her daughter and grabbed her upper arm. Aela startled in the grip, her eyes shooting wide with bewilderment when she saw the fury in her mother's eyes.

"And what if they were? What if Vilkas' and Farkas' parents really were necromancers? What difference would it make? Would you treat him differently if he were Askar's son?"

A stubborn line formed around the girl's mouth. "If they were Askar's sons, they would become Companions too later. But they're just here because nobody else wants them."

Liv let her daughter go, had to force herself not to shove her away. Where in Oblivion did she pick up these prejudices? This careless cruelty?

"What do you think, what will you become later, Aela?"

She straightened herself. "A Companion, of course. Like you and grandma."

"You're sure?"

"Of course! You always said I'll be a Companion! You said it's our tradition!"

"Well, I'm not so sure any more."

The bewildered, terrified speechlessness of her daughter gave her a strange sense of satisfaction, even though it pierced through her heart to see her like that. But at least she had gotten behind that facade of complacency.

"Why?"

Liv turned sternly to the girl. "You're my daughter, and I love you, Aela... but it needs more than to be the daughter of someone to become a Companion. Much more. It needs hard work, and loyalty, and honour. The Companions are a family, there's a reason why we call ourselves brothers and sisters. If you don't feel like that towards your shield-siblings – all of them! - you're in the wrong place."

"But I work hard! And everybody says I'll have my trial as soon as possible!" Now Aela's voice sounded nearly desperate.

"Yes, you do, but it seems you don't know how lucky you are because you have the chance to work and learn and train with your dad and me. Vilkas and Farkas work hard too, and they have nobody. Have you ever thought that not everybody is as lucky as you?"

"But that's not true! They live there, in Jorrvaskr, and can train with you all the time, and they have Jergen, and all the others, and you!"

"That's not the same, Aela. Yes, they were lucky that Jergen found them. But they lost their parents. Do you know what that means? How would you feel if your dad and I were gone suddenly, if we were killed on a job?"

The girl looked at her with wide open eyes, swallowing heavily. "You can't get killed," she whispered finally, "you're warriors."

"Don't be so naive, Aela," she snapped, "of course we can. Our line of work isn't exactly peaceful." She laid a hand on Aela's arm. "We do our best to stay alive, but it can happen. It has happened to him." She pointed at the tent.

The girl gritted her teeth, pressing her lips into a firm, stubborn line. "And now he needs a babysitter. Either Farkas or Jergen or you! And he ruins our trip!" The accusation in her tone was unmistakable.

Slowly but surely, Liv lost her temper with her daughter. "He doesn't need a babysitter! But he deserves to learn the same you had the chance to learn, and I promised Jergen to teach him everything I can!"

"But he's not your son!"

Suddenly Liv became very quiet again. "No, he isn't, daughter. He's just a foundling. But if he and his brother want to be Companions one day and they pass their trial, they will be your shield-brothers, and it does not matter at all if their real parents were Companions too or necromancers, beggars or Jarls. It doesn't matter, and if they want to join us, they will have my support just as much as Jergen's. Is that clear?"

The stubbornness was back in Aela's face. "Farkas perhaps. He is... good. But not he." She waved in direction of the tent. "He will never be a true warrior with that silly sword of his, and he has no right to be here!"

"Fortunately that's not yours to decide." Liv took a long gulp from her tankard, suddenly tired to the bones. "Go to sleep, Aela. We'll have a hard day tomorrow."

"But..."

"Do as I say!"

Something in her tone made the girl obey without a further word, and she retreated into the tent, sending her mother a last angry glare before she closed the flap. Liv buried her forehead in her palms.

This wasn't fun. Not at all.

What had gone wrong? She had been so proud of her daughter. She still was, Aela was a good girl, talented and diligent. Liv knew that the tantrum she had thrown today was partly motivated by simple jealousy because she didn't have her mother all to herself. But there was more behind it, and it concerned the woman deeply. Despite the hard life they lived, somehow they had managed to spoil their daughter. Of course she worked hard, and she was good at what she did. Sometimes she was indeed exceptional. But it had obviously done her no good to let her know about it.

The pride Liv felt herself for the tradition of her family that at least one woman of every generation became a member of the Companions, she had wanted to convey it to her daughter. It was an honourable tradition, with much prestige and many obligations, and of course she wanted Aela to continue it. But in her mind, this tradition had somehow twisted into a claim. Into an entitlement she had no right to feel. Especially not when it excluded others, and even less when it led to the contempt she had shown today.

And Vilkas... the boy was far too quiet. Liv didn't have the feeling that he was intimidated by her daughter, despite her hostility. He didn't even ignore her, quite the contrary. He rather seemed... detached, observing silently everything around him, just taking in Aela's outbreaks and barely veiled insults and equally Liv's reactions - or non-reactions, as she shamefully had to admit. But he gave nothing away, and this behaviour was disturbing. He was known to have a temper and never to cut back in an argument, and he had a way to argue for his - and his brother's - interests when he felt that they were treated unjust that was as eloquent as remarkable for a boy of seven years.

That he kept so frighteningly quiet now and simply endured everything Aela threw at him left Liv with a bad feeling. He was seven years old... if he was hurt or angry, he should show it. If he was tired or hungry or his feet ached, he should show it. But he didn't, as if he knew that he didn't belong here, that showing was futile because it would change nothing. And so he kept pace with them without so much as a grumble, carried his share of the load without complaint and didn't show his exhaustion once. He had ruined their hunt, yes... but even that wasn't solely his fault.

She would have to find a way to melt the ice between the children.

Liv emptied the rest of her brew into the fire and threw a few handfuls of sand onto the flames before she rose with a sigh. She would only allow herself a light doze and keep her senses alert, but she needed some rest as well.

But as soon as she opened the tent flap to squeeze herself into the tight space between the children, she knew that something was wrong.

Aela lay on her side, facing the leather wall, and slept. And Vilkas mirrored her, pressed against the opposite tarp as if he wanted to make himself as small as possible. As if he didn't use the least space anyway. But he lay stiff like a plank, and he was wide awake.

And when she smelled his tears, even if he didn't release a single sound, she knew that he had overheard their conversation.

She lay on her back for a moment, uncertain what to do. Aela slept deeply and with light snores. But on her other side, the breathing of the boy was shallow and erratic, she could hear his teeth grind in his effort to keep quiet and feel the tension in the small body.

And she could imagine what was going on inside him in this moment. The urge to escape this situation and the helplessness because he knew that he was too small and too weak just to leave, because he was stuck with their company. Stuck with the girl that despised him for so many reasons and the woman who had just taken him along because she had made a promise to the man who claimed to be his stepfather. The knowledge that he was just here because nobody else wanted him around. Because he was just a foundling.

She could sense the loneliness and despair radiating from him, trapped in the tight space of this tent with them. And it broke her heart.

He didn't react, only became even stiffer when she finally turned to the side, propped her head in her palm and laid a hand on his shoulder, a light and cautious touch. She didn't expect anything else. Not from Vilkas. He seldom allowed physical contact, so different from his twin... only from Tilma, and even that only rarely. But now he couldn't get away, and although she couldn't force him to open up, she wanted at least to let him know that she was there, and that she knew that he was awake.

But after a few minutes she retreated her hand, left the tent again to give him some space and sat down at the lowly smouldering fire. She poked the coals with a stick and watched the sparks scatter and extinguish beneath the dark clouded sky.

It would be a long night, but she would keep watch over the children. It was the least she could do.

Chapter Text

Jergen's hand closed around Farkas' shoulder with a firm grip the moment he smelled the smoke, and the boy stopped dead, looking anxiously up to the man. He laid a finger on his lips.

"Careful," he whispered, "someone's there."

They were approaching a little hut, one of the many shelters found throughout the wilderness of Skyrim. Usually not more than three or four walls and a roof made from crude, raw planks nailed to a simple framework, these hideouts were erected and maintained by the groups of hunters that roamed the lands to get rid of the necessity of always carrying camping gear with them. They didn't provide much comfort, only enough shelter for a night or to sit out a storm, but they were usually stocked with firewood and some furs and always located near a source of fresh water. It was common practice that everybody was allowed to use them as long as they were left in the same state they were found, and usually everbody abode by this unwritten law. Finding shelter could be lifesaving for everybody.

Knowing these habits, Jergen wasn't especially worried when he realised that someone else already occupied the spot he had chosen for the night, but still he wanted to make sure that there was no danger ahead. He laid a finger to his lips and gestured the boy to follow him silently – it would be a good practice, and even if they were caught, it probably didn't matter.

But he froze on the spot when they cowered deep in some low brushes at the edge of the glade, close enough to see who sat at the fire – these were no mere travellers. No hunters, no merchants taking a shortcut away from the roads, no warriors or mercenaries like themselves. A deep crease formed between his brows as he watched the two men and one woman who were hunched around the small fire they had built.

He knew outlaws when he saw them. He had killed enough of them to be sure. The mismatched armours and shoddy appearance were only a first hint, another was the fact that they always had their weapons close at hand, even the man that stirred the iron pot hanging over the flames. But what made him absolutely certain was their posture, this anxious alertness, this readiness to run – or to attack – as soon as something approached them.

No honest traveller would behave like that. These people weren't ready to defend themselves against a bear or wolf attack – they were afraid to be caught.

Jergen mused what could have induced them to choose this relatively public, well known place for their rest when his sensitive nose catched something beneath the stench of smoke, unwashed bodies and cooking meat. And now that he looked closer, he saw that one of the men sat bent-forward, his forearm pressed against his stomach, the front of his tunic ripped and moist and his face shining with sweat.

He reeked of sepsis, and beneath the ripped fabric he held a festering open wound, oozing blood, pus and ichor.

Jergen made his decision in a split second. Usually he would have just freed the world of this scum, but he didn't want to risk a fight with the child around – on the one hand not to bring him into danger, and most of all didn't he want him to see that much unbridled violence. But when he turned around and motioned Farkas to move, the boy still stared at the campsite, his eyes wide.

"We leave, Farkas," Jergen whispered urgently, grabbing the boy's shoulder and trying to turn him around. But the boy stretched out a finger and pointed at something.

"Jergen," he breathed, "look!"

The commotion behind him made Jergen turn again. Farkas had been right, behind the group, in a corner in the back of the open hut, lay another man. Who now started to stir and to sputter, a pained groan ripping from his throat.

The bandit who had taken care of the food reacted at once to the sound, standing up and yanking the man to his knees. Now Jergen could see that he was young, barely more than a boy, blonde, short-cropped curls standing in every direction and clotted with sweat and blood, a bloody scratch running over his cheek. He was bound, his hands tied behind his back and now ripped brutally upwards by his assailant. The pain made him cry out as the brigand dragged him towards the fire where he was pushed roughly to his knees. The rope that bound his wrists was cut while the woman held a dagger to his throat. She hadn't said a single word so far, her eyes on the injured man.

"Heal him," she pressed through gritted teeth, the steel leaving a red line on the man's neck.

Their prisoner tried to turn his head, his face contorted with fear, but the blade only pressed in harder. "I can't!" he cried, his now unbound hands clenching in his lap, "I'm no healer!"

"You're a mage. Heal him or you'll die."

Despair stood in the young man's face as his eyes flitted over the people around him and came to rest on the injured man who seemed barely conscious any more. He lowered his head, whispering something they couldn't understand.

A violent hit against his temple let him slump sidewards. "Heal him!" the other brigand yelled furiously, his boot making heavy contact with his ribs. Another hit to the back of his head made the young man fall prone, unconscious. Blood spilled forth and ran down his neck. When he didn't move any more, his wrists were bound again.

Jergen felt a tug at his sleeve, and looking down he stared into the pleading eyes of the boy. He nodded, slowly and silently unsheathing his sword. Farkas was right. They had to do something. These people would kill an innocent man just because they didn't have the means to help themselves. He didn't feel pity with the injured man – life was dangerous, he had more than once only barely survived similar injuries, and usually it had been his own fault. Because he had been careless or unprepared. Never would he have someone else suffer for his own stupidity or bad luck.

He waited until the woman cowered behind the wounded man who swayed as if he couldn't hold himself upright any more, stabilising him with a firm grip to his shoulders. He gave Farkas a warning look to stay back and not be seen before he entered the clearing in front of the hut, sword drawn and ready to defend himself.

Before he could say a word, his concerns were proven right.

The leader of the group looked up, his face twisting in surprise to see the heavily armoured warrior approaching, but he didn't falter for long.

"You're not welcome here, stranger," he pressed out between gritted teeth, grabbing a dangerous looking waraxe lying close at hand. His other hand clenched around the hilt of a dagger. From the corner of his eyes Jergen saw the woman retreat towards a stack of crates piled up beside the hut. On top of it lay a bow and a quiver.

He would have to be fast, with the odds against him like that, even if the injured man was no danger. He charged with a roar and attacked, turning in his first onslaught so the body of his opponent shielded him against the archer.

But an honourable life didn't make automatically for the better fighter, he had to admit. His foe was strong and skilled, wielding his weapons with deadly precision, his strikes much faster than Jergens own and annoyingly unpredictable.

The outlaw started to circle him, tried to force him to turn his back to the archer, but Jergen backed off fast and brought the other man between himself and his companion again when he saw her nock an arrow. A fast slash of the axe collided with his blade, its curved edge sliding along the steel until it locked on the crossguard. Eyes locked and muscles bulged.

That dagger was far too near, Jergen more heard than felt the scratching of metal on metal when the small blade slipped off the steel plate of his greaves. His knee came up and rammed into his opponent's groin, making him stumble back with a yell. A malicious grin formed on Jergen's face. This wasn't an honourable fight, it was never meant as such. Slowly his blood started to boil, the frenzy of the fight making his head light and freeing his instincts.

He nearly missed the small movement at the edge of his field of view, but when he realised it, it was already too late. The moment he saw the small, leatherclad figure slip into the darkness of the hut, his eyes shot wide and gave him away, the single moment of inattentiveness giving his foe an opportunity he used at once. Making a step backwards that wasn't followed at once, his axe came down in a wide, powerful arc, aimed for Jergen's neck.

He was too late to parry the hit with his sword or to duck under it, his only chance to let himself fall to his knees, the blade swinging audibly over his head. This was one of the worst moves he could have made and he knew it, leaving him nearly immobilised, and for once he cursed his heavy armour, especially as the leather the other man wore gave him now an advantage. The boot that crashed into his chest hit fast and heavily, making him bend backwards. He struggled for breath as the man towered over him but still brought his sword up again, both hands clenched around the handle and angling it to intercept axe and dagger at once.

Sparks flew as the weapons made contact, but the moment he gathered his strength to push the bandit back and give himself room to move the man suddenly screamed, collapsing with spasming limbs as magic sizzled over his body.

The young man kneeled in the entrance to the hut, the ends of the ropes still dangling from his wrists, purple sparks flickering between his palms and deadly determination in his eyes. Behind him cowered a child. As an arrow pierced the joints of Jergen's breastplate and got stuck between them, the tip buried in his flesh, he ripped it out with a cry of anguish and pain, jumped to his feet and charged for the archer. The moment he had passed the fireplace, lightning struck again and the wounded man fell forwards with a hollow groan, dead.

When it became quiet, Jergen panted heavily, his palms propped on his knees. To his feet lay the beheaded corpse of the woman, the soil drenched with blood.

"Stay where you are, Farkas," he yelled before he started to drag the body away, hid it in the bushes behind the hut.

Gods, this was exactly what he had wanted to avoid. That the boy had to witness something like that.

"Jergen!"

Farkas' scream alerted him in an instant, the bright voice sounding helpless and terrified. He gave the body a last kick and rushed back to the campsite, just to find his son kneeling beside the young man who lay on his side, both faces deadly pale.

"He just fell over!" Farkas cried, "is he dead too?"

Jergen hunched down beside the boy, felt for the pulse of the young man, then pulled the child against him. "No," he said soothingly, "he's just unconscious." He held the boy's palm in front of the man's face. "Here, you can feel that he breathes. Have an eye on him for a second, okay?"

The boy, glad to know what he had to do, turned his attention back to the mage. Jergen watched him for a moment. The boy was crazy. He knew exactly that he couldn't intervene into the fight. But it seemed it was impossible for him not to do something, and so he had decided fast and all on his own that he would do the only thing he was able to – free the prisoner.

Perhaps it had been reckless, perhaps it had been their salvation – but Jergen couldn't help but feel proud of him.

He dragged the other corpses away, fetched their packs and placed some furs near the fire before he went back to the hut. Lifting the mage up and placing him near the fire, the young man stirred and groaned as he started to examine him. Besides some bruises that were large, dark and painful and proof of the cruel treatment he had suffered, his bloody wrists and the wound at the back of his head, he had no other obvious injuries. It was probably the hit to the head, combined with exhaustion and the stress of the fight that kept him unconscious, and Jergen decided to wait until he'd wake all on his own after he had cleaned and bandaged the open wounds.

In the meantime, they would have dinner.

The brigands had cooked some boarflesh in a kettle over the fire, and they made use of this now, refined it with a few potatoes, onions and carrots as well as some wild garlic, fresh from the edge of the wood. Jergen watched the boy curiously while they were preparing the food. He seemed remarkably unfazed by the bloodbath he had just witnessed, just a bit withdrawn.

"Are you okay, Farkas?" he finally asked gently.

The boy looked up at him, a slight shiver running through his body. "That lightning...," he said shakily, wetness gathering in his eyes, and Jergen understood. Lightning spells were often preferred by Necromancers. The boy had probably witnessed their use before... perhaps even on his parents.

He laid a hand on his shoulder. "I don't like it either," he said calmly, "but today it helped us."

The boy stared at him for a moment, then nodded silently and turned back to slicing his carrots. "That's what you do all the time, don't you?" he asked suddenly without looking at the man. "Kill people. In all the stories you tell, people always die."

Jergen felt guilt well up. This was nothing for a child. It would have been his duty to protect Farkas from it. But the boy returned his look earnestly and calm, but not afraid.

"Not all the time. But sometimes, yes. When I have to." He kept his hands busy, the sharp smell of the garlic rising into his nose. "These people were evil. They would have killed him," he pointed at the motionless figure at the fire, "and us as well."

"Yes..." The boy became quiet for a moment. "Why do people become like this? We could have helped the man..." Farkas motioned a cut over his stomach. "They could have just asked!"

Jergen couldn't suppress a small smile. Many people lived in Jorrvaskr in a tight space. One of the first thing the boys had learned – painfully, after Skjor had caught them in his room, rummaging through one of his chest – was that they had to ask if they wanted something that wasn't theirs.

"I don't know. Perhaps they know nothing else. Perhaps because they can't do anything else but take from others. Some people have never learned it better."

A sigh from the fire alerted him, and he gave the ladle to Farkas. The mage stirred with fluttering eyelids, holding his side with a pained expression. He jerked back when he saw Jergen towering above him as he opened his eyes, but the warrior hunched down, helped him to sit up and pressed a healing potion into his hands. He gulped it down all at once, twisting his face due to the bitterness and let out a relieved groan.

"Who are you? There was a boy..."

"I'm Jergen. Companion from Whiterun. We came by just in time, it seems." He waved over. "Farkas, come here."

When the boy stood before them, the man smiled at him, showing some dimples in his cheeks that made him look even younger. "My saviour. Thank you." He straightened himself with a grunt and sat up. "Name's Talsgar. I'm just a bard... from Bruma, on my way to Solitude to the college. It was careless to leave the road... thank you, friends." Relief and exhaustion shone from his eyes.

Jergen smiled. "Hungry? Your assailants left some food behind. It will be ready in a few minutes."

It was nearly visible how the thought watered his mouth. "I only got some water from them. For nearly two days... Gods, I don't think I would have survived this night. They didn't want to believe that I'm no mage..."

"But you are! That lightning...," Farkas blurted out, his eyes wide.

"No, I'm not." Talsgar smiled friendly. "I just know a few spells... not even enough to defend myself, it seems." A crease formed between his brows. "They destroyed my lute, those bastards. I will have to make a new one."

"But you can just buy one. Will you tell us a story? You know lots of stories, don't you?" Farkas asked eagerly as he brought some wooden bowls filled with stew over to the men. The only bard he knew was Carsten, the minstrel hired to entertain the crowd in the Bannered Mare, Whiterun's local tavern. Sometimes the Companions borrowed him when they had a feast of their own, and he was an inexhaustible source of tales and songs.

Talsgar laughed, an open, boyish laughter. "Every bard with any kind of self-esteem makes his own instruments, boy. Bought instruments are just for dabblers. And yes, if you want I will tell you a story. It's the least I can do."

But even as they still ate, it became obvious that Talsgar was in no condition to entertain an audience that evening. He was still in pain, his head throbbing, his eyes looking hazy and tired and he nearly dozed off while still chewing. He was full of thankfulness when Jergen told them their destination and that he could accompany them next day, and gave Farkas an apologetic look.

"I'm afraid I need to get some rest if I wanna keep up with you. Tomorrow, okay? As many stories as you want. Promised."

When Talsgar had retired under his furs at the back wall of the hut where it was dark and quiet, Jergen turned to his son.

"Aren't you tired? You did a hell of a march today."

"No. But I gotta wash." He jumped up and darted towards the lively little creek that ran beside the hut, a cheeky grin spreading over his face, and Jergen laughed out loud. That little rascal. "Hey," he shouted after the boy and pointed at the used bowls, "do them as well while you're at it."

When the boy came back, his face shrubbed clean and his hair plastered in wet strands to his neck, Jergen had already poured him a small amount of his mead into a cup. Just a sip, but the boy took it proudly and tasted. Jergen watched him amused as he settled beside him on the log, the fire sending sparks into the dark sky.

"You really like that, don't you?"

"Yep. It's sweet."

"Well, you earned it. You really did a good job today. Although... that rescue of Talsgar, that you freed him, that was dangerous."

"But I wanted to help!"

"I know. And in the end, it was good what you did. But if the archer had seen you, she would have killed you."

"But she didn't. I was careful." The boy looked stubbornly at the man. "I always stayed behind the trees."

"Clever," Jergen smiled. And brave, he thought.

"You think Talsgar will really tell me a story tomorrow?" the boy suddenly asked, excitement in his voice.

"Of course he will, he's a bard. I'm sure he knows lots of them."

"How is it that bards know so much more stories than other people?"

"Because it's their job, Farkas. Just like it's my job to clear skeever dens and Eorlund's to work the forge. I think... they share them between themselves. And there are many stories in books."

Farkas frowned. "I know. Vilkas reads them all the time. But he never tells me what they're about." He was quiet for a moment. "I'm much better at storytelling than he. It's much more exciting than reading."

"But you still wanna learn it, don't you?"

"Yep."

"You still know how to spell your name? Or are you already drunk?" Jergen grinned at the boy.

"Jergen... that was only a sip!" The boy looked indignant that he even dared to asked.

"Oh, excuse me, Sir... didn't wanna imply that you can't hold your mead." Jergen nudged the boy into his side, and Farkas giggled. "We could do one more exercise. Unless you're too tired, of course."

"I'm not tired!"

Of course not. "Well, if you're up to it, perhaps you'd like to start to read that letter of yours?"

The boy's eyes shot wide. "Really?"

"Yeah. We've practiced so much today, I think it's time to come back to the letters."

Doubt flitted over the boy's face, but then he leant over, full of attention. "Okay." He took the last drops of his mead and put the cup away.

"Alright," Jergen said, "your name starts with...?"

"Fff." It came without hesitation.

Jergen used the sole of his boot to clean a small spot in front of them of leaves and pebbles and to smooth it into a plane surface, then took the ladle from the stew that cooled off beside the fire. He held it upside down and used the handle to scratch some lines into the earth at their feet – one vertical, two horizontal.

"That's a Fff. It's the first letter of your name. Wanna have a look at your letter and see if you can find it?"

Jergen prayed to the Nine that Vilkas had at least written one word that started with an F.

Farkas fished the crumpled piece of paper out of the pants pocket and unfolded it carefully, turning to make sure that his father didn't even get a glimpse. Jergen watched him amused and released an inward sound of relief when the boy's face lit up into a broad smile.

"Found it?"

Farkas just beamed at him and nodded, used his own boot to wipe out Jergen's scribble and took the ladle from his hand. And then he bent over and started to scratch something into the dirt, his eyes skipping back and forth between the letter and the flat plane between his feet, biting his lip in concentration.

Jergen watched in awe. The boy wrote.

When he was finished, Farkas turned to the man. "What does this mean?" he asked, his voice anxious, nearly breathless.

Jergen slung his arm around the boys' shoulder, pulling him against his chest as they bent together over the word. The letters were uneven and clumsy, some lines askew or flowing into each other where they shouldn't, but they were definitely readable.

"This means Farkas. It's your name. You've just written your name."

Bright shining eyes looked into his face as the boy pointed towards the hut – or towards the underbrush behind it. "I want to do something else later," he said. "I don't want to become like them."

Chapter Text

Liv knelt at the edge of the little creek and swept large handfuls of icy water into her face. She felt tired, but it was a good kind of exhaustion, incredibly relaxed after soaking for hours in the hot spring right next to their camp. The warm, nearly milky water sated with minerals eased the strains from body and mind like nothing else, and not even the stench of rotten eggs could bother her any more. But it wasn't drinkable, and after they had erected their tent in a small grove, they had all earned something warm and spicy for dinner.

The cold revived her senses, and she sighed contently. Five minutes for herself, that wasn’t asked too much. Tomorrow she would go hunting with the kids, and she was confident that they'd have a good time. She'd show them the Atronach stone and the huge hollow where those enormous, strange bones protruded from the grounds. It were probably only mammoth bones, but legend was that a dragon was buried there, the skeleton still intact and the visible parts of it shimmering like alabaster. The kids would love the story.

The day hadn’t gone too bad. In fact, it had been much better than anticipated after the disaster of the last evening.

They were all in an awkward mood in the morning, albeit for different reasons. Aela was still at odds with her mother, Vilkas kept to himself, barely nodding a stiff thanks when Liv handed him some bread and a tankard of tea for breakfast. And she felt strangely helpless towards the children, a helplessness she only reluctantly admitted to herself.

When they dispatched the tent, she drew Aela to the side and not asked, but ordered her sternly to leave Vilkas alone. She didn't give an explanation, didn't refer with a single word to their conversation of the last evening, but for once the girl sensed that her mother was deadly serious and that she would have to face the consequences if she kept up her cussing and bitching. Apart from that, she wasn't insensitive. She felt that something had happened although she didn't know what, and she knew she had gone overboard. She didn't like the boy and she blamed him for her own misery, but she wasn't cruel. Not deliberately, at least.

They broke their fast, packed and headed out towards the Eastmarch in tense silence, but Liv was relieved nevertheless. At least the weather had cleared up, and they marched into the rising sun, chirping and rustling around them as the wildlife woke to the new day. To be out here with nothing to do but to set one foot in front of the other and having a lazy eye on their environment was nothing but relaxing, and soon she recognised the change of mood in the children as well.

Vilkas trudged a few steps behind them, but she became aware how his interest awoke. He wasn't as used to living in the wilderness as Aela, but he wasn't a total fledgling either, and when Liv called his attention to the manifold things they encountered, told him which plants were poisonous and which edible or usable in alchemy, showed him the scratch marks of a bear in the bark of a tree and the hollow where a sabrecat had spent the night, he was full of rapt attention.

When they caught the clarion song of a robin, Vilkas mimicked it with astonishing accuracy and even got an answer, she saw for the first time a small, shy smile on his face. He still didn't engage actively in their conversation, and he still seemed detached and withdrawn. But for once he seemed to enjoy to be out of Jorrvaskr, even if he had to bear their company. For once he behaved like a seven-year-old should behave, showed interest and shook off his brooding mood, and Liv was relieved to see the change in him.

The hot springs greeted them in the late afternoon with their sulphurous smell and clouds of steam over the glittering surface of turquoise basins in the open landscape. They dropped their packs and discarded their armours and clothes without searching for a campsite, exhausted and sweaty as they were. Aela was in first, only in her panties she shuddered in the cold air and jumped into the pool with a squeal of delight that made Liv grin. But when her head broke through the surface again, she shook herself like a wet whelp, red hair flying in wet tresses around her head, cupped her palms and threw a handful of water on her mother.

Just that Liv chose that moment to bend down and unlace her boots, and the water splashed right into Vilkas' face who stood behind her.

For a moment Aela froze, startled by the wet patch on Vilkas' jerkin and tunic... and by the devious expression that settled on his face. Not really a scowl, not yet a grin, an unsettling mixture of mirth and threat. His gaze wandered from the girl to the pool she stood in, the water reaching up to her waist, and over the small cascades where the water fell down into the lower basins.

His eyes were fixed on Aela while he shrugged off his clothes swiftly, and she watched him as well for a moment before she dove away and climbed down the steep ledge to the lower level, landing with another splash. Trying to regain her footing on the slippery ground, she didn't notice the small figure that came after her until she felt his grip on her ankle, yanking her foot from under her, making her fall to her back and breathe in water. She  sputtered and coughed, but a firm grip to her shoulders and the weight of the boy held her down while she struggled helplessly to get up, and finally Vilkas placed both his feet on her chest, locked her flat against the bottom of the pool and pushed himself off, vanishing again beneath the surface. When he emerged again, he had reached the lowest level of this spring, the water deeper, darker and cooler than in the higher basins.

While Aela still fought for breath, he lay motionless on his back and relaxed, hands folded behind his head and a grin on his face.

Liv watched the scene with awe. She hadn't expected this, but the boy swam like a fish, slipped through the water with an ease as if this were truely his element – and with much more grace than her daughter. In hindsight it wasn't astonishing, though – of course swimming wasn't the most common hobby in Skyrim, but Vilkas had learned it in the foaming waters of the White River right outside of Whiterun and not, like Aela, in the calm waves and on the gentle shores of Lake Ilinalta. And he obviously liked it, he rampaged through the pools, climbed out and jumped in again, slipped down the small waterfalls, and every time Aela crossed his way she fell victim to his insanely fast attacks, found herself flat on her back and dumped beneath the surface while he slipped out of her grip like an eel.

They didn't play with each other, but they played and they interacted. And although Vilkas for once had clearly the upper hand, Aela reined in her temper, even if she cursed violently every time she came up coughing and panting.

"That tastes horrible!" she yelled up to her mother, Liv lying motionless on her back, her head resting on the edge of the uppermost, hottest pool. She didn't intend to move anytime soon, not as long the children didn't crack their skulls or were about to drown.

"Nobody forces you to drink it, daughter," she yelled back.

"Oh yes, he does!" Aela turned around, but Vilkas was already gone again.

"Your problem if you let him." But Aela didn't hear her, caught again in their endless circle of chase-and-get-chased.

The memory made Liv smile while she filled the water skins. She should have known that after the rock bottom the day before, it could only become better. She just hoped the momentary ease of tension would last over the next days. Tomorrow, if they found suitable prey, Aela would have the upper hand again.

The scream that woke her from her musings was full of panic and terror.

"LIIIV!"

It was Vilkas' voice. She froze only for a second, the first image flashing through her mind the kids mauled to shreds of bloody flesh by sabrecats or wolves, the second thought cursing herself for her carelessless because after the bath, she hadn't bothered to don her armour again. At least sword and dagger were tied to her hip, and she drew them while already racing back the short distance.

They had set up camp in a small clearing in the middle of a patch of wood, the glade providing barely enough space for their tent and a fire. The sight that was presented to her as she ran through the trees was as terrifying as confusing.

Aela lay on her back near the fire, her head dangerously near to the licking flames, writhing and twisting, white foam at her mouth as she panted in convulsive breaths for air. And Vilkas stood at her feet, legs spread into a defensive stance, and swang an enormous branch.

A burning branch, the flames nibbling at smaller twigs protruding from it, sparks spraying through the air. He used it in the same fashion he swang his training sword, both hands clenched around the wood, using the strength of his shoulders and the weight of his body to move it, his arms held stiffly in front of him. Burn marks were clattered over his bare forearms.

Liv stopped dead, trying to make sense of the scene. Until she saw the movement at the edge of the glade and the faint glow between the trunks of the trees. It took her only a few steps, she let her dagger fall away and ripped the branch from Vilkas hands, shoving him away and behind her before she attacked the spriggan with sword and fire, hacking and slashing at it with a furious scream. The creature lunged out at her but the fire kept it at distance, and Liv didn't feel the scratches the branch-like arms and fingers left on her skin anyway. She drove it back with the wrath of her attacks, deeper between the trees into the darkness where its glow was better visible than in the flickering light of the fire. Insects swarmed around her, biting and stinging but she was relentless, and finally the spriggan collapsed to the ground, the sickly green glow dying out, its limbs twisted like a strange knot of vines.

Liv panted heavily but didn't take time to catch her breath, racing back to the camp. She remembered how she had jostled Vilkas away and felt sorry, hoping she didn't hurt him, but as she came back he hunched already beside Aela, the contents of her pack emptied at his feet. Spare clothes, arrow tips, traveling rations, her whetstone, a map and a couple of candles lay in a messy heap, and Vilkas was already busy sorting the various bottles of potions from the pile. She gave him a small, thankful smile as she knelt down beside him and grabbed the flask with the antidote. Her heart pounded in her chest, from the fight, with fear for her daughter and anger with herself, but she forced herself to calm down as she felt for the pulse of the girl and brought the shaking, spasming body into a sitting position, back against her chest, Aela's head tilted against her shoulder.

Most important was to make her swallow the medicine. She pressed the bottle into Vilkas' hand.

"On my command, give it to her. But only by drops, okay?"

The boy's eyes stared frightened into her face, but he nodded silently, following her motions as she clenched her fingers around Aela's jaws, forcing them open and pressing a thumb between her clenched teeth. She didn't care now if her daughter would bite her. A terrifying gurgling escaped Aela's throat, she thrashed against the unrelenting grip of her mother's arm that was slung firmly around her chest, but finally she opened her mouth.

"Now," Liv pressed out, and Vilkas lifted the bottle to the girl's lips, his hand trembling. Drop by drop the viscous liquid trickled into her mouth, and Liv felt dizzy with relief when she swallowed, only a small amount dripping down her chin. It didn't take long and the antidote took effect, the cramps left her body, she sagged against her mother, her breathing calmed down and the tortured unconsciousness passed over into a deep sleep.

Liv hooked an arm under her daughter's knees and carried her carefully to the other side of the fire, laying her down on a bedroll and tugging her under a thick layer of furs. Tears stood in her eyes as she knelt beside her daughter, and she exhaled a long, shivering breath.

Divines. What if... she didn't dare to finish the thought as she stared down into the deadly pale face that was bare of any expression, stroking it with her fingertips and tucking away a sweaty strand of copper hair.

But a suppressed sob behind her startled her up, barely audible, barely there. As she turned, she saw Vilkas still kneeling in the mess he had made, his face buried in his palms, his body shaking in helpless crying. When Liv hunched down beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder, he tried to jerk out of her touch. He always did. But now, she wouldn't let him go.

"Vilkas...," she said softly, holding and steadying him, but he only lifted his eyes to her, tears streaming over his cheeks.

"I should have held her back," he sobbed. Again he tried to get away from her, and again she didn't let him.

"Vilkas..." Liv answered his frightened, frantic gaze with her own, her grip on his shoulders firm. "You saved her life tonight."

The boy clenched his teeth in an effort to calm himself, but then his eyes wandered to the motionless figure beyond the fire, tension, guilt and fatigue breaking free in convulsive sobbing, and he curled himself into a ball, his elbows on his knees, trembling and shivering.

Liv didn't think any more about the right behaviour towards this strange boy, she followed her instincts, pulled him into her lap and closed her arms around him, overcame the resistance in the small body with soothing strokes along his back. He cried as if all dams had burst, wetting her tunic with his tears, and compassion clenched her heart as she held him.

Compassion and guilt. He was only seven years old, and tonight he had saved her daughter's life. But no one had embraced this child like this for the last three years, and nobody knew if he ever had ever known closeness like this at all. Of course he never allowed anybody to come so near, no one but his brother, always detached and dismissive... but on the other hand, no one had ever cared enough to overcome this refusal, to ask for the reasons. Everybody always thought that he was a bit weird, with his wit so much sharper than usual for a boy of his age, and everybody had directed the affection these warriors were able to show towards his brother, because it was easier, because Farkas took it with a smile and an open heart. No one thought it worthwhile to fight for the affection of a stubborn seven-year-old foundling when his twin was so much more endearing.

She didn't either. And now he had saved her daughter's life, brave, determined and clever. She owed him her life. The thought hit her like a lightning bolt.

She held him until the crying had died down and his fists released their clenching grip on her tunic, but he made no effort to get away again, stayed leant against her chest even as his breathing had calmed down. When she opened the jar with the healing salve, took his hand and treated the blisters on his arms and hands, he lifted a gaze full of thankfulness to her face.

"What happened, Vilkas? Can you tell me?" she asked quietly. She held him loosely and without force, but he didn't move, his head resting heavily against her shoulder. She could feel the exhaustion in him.

"There was this fox," he whispered so lowly that she barely understood him. "Aela said you like fox pelts and she wanted to get it and told me not to follow her. But... I thought it looked weird, and I told her to stay and that you'd be back in a few minutes, but she didn't want to listen."

"What do you mean, weird?"

His voice became firmer. "It was odd that it came so close to the fire that we could see it. It just stood there. And..." he hesitated.

"Yes? And what?"

"It glowed." Now he looked up into her face. "Only a bit, but... are there glowing foxes?"

Liv exhaled a deep breath. "Yes, there are. Sometimes. It glowed like the spriggan, didn't it?"

"Spriggan? That was this thing?"

"Yes. They're... some kind of spirit. They have power over nature, and they can command animals." A small chortle escaped her. "We've been lucky it only had a fox under its control and not a bear." She searched the boy's eyes. "How did you know that fire helps if you didn't even know that it's a spriggan? Nothing is as effective against them as fire."

He straightened himself slightly, lifting his head, and a trace of his usual smugness was in his voice as he gave her a tiny, strained grin. "It's made of wood, Liv."

She grinned back, relieved and tired. "Aye, of course. Stupid question, that."

His eyes flitted to Aela again. "Will she be okay?"

"Yes. The antidote contains painkillers and a tranquilisers, and she will sleep for at least twelve hours. But she will be fine. Aela is tough."

A small smile spread over his face. It became quiet for long minutes, the boy seemingly content to lie in her lap. But she felt that he wasn't as relaxed as he looked, and finally she straightened herself. Perhaps she'd never have an opportunity like this again.

"Vilkas?"

The boy only nodded without looking at her. As if he knew what was to come, and as if he wanted to make it as easy for her as possible. But his breath hitched, and she felt him tense.

"You know... when Jergen brought you to Jorrvaskr, three years ago, many people told him to take you to the orphanage in Riften instead. Also some of us Companions. But he didn't want to, he argued and fought to be allowed to keep you, and honestly, many of us didn't understand him. What did he want with you two little boys, and how would you fit into this life... but he was stubborn, and he got his own way. Nearly as stubborn as you." She smiled down at the dark head that lay against her shoulder. "But that was three years ago, and nobody asks these questions any more. You're strong boys, Farkas and you, and one day you will be warriors and perhaps Companions too. If you want to. And until then, Jorrvaskr will always be your home. No matter where you come from, you belong to us. Never forget that."

The boy didn't react, but she felt his hand clench into her tunic again, as if he needed something to hold on to. Her embrace tightened slightly.

"You know why I invited you on this trip?"

He shook his head, barely noticeable.

She laughed lowly. "Two reasons. First, I thought it would be fun. You're smart, and it's high time you learn how to survive out here. You can't learn everything from books alone. And you've done a good job so far. An excellent job, to be honest, even Aela will have to admit it. And the second reason is... well, your brother has a little problem, and he needs some time with Jergen to solve it."

Vilkas' head jerked up. "Farkas has a problem? What is it?"

"Nothing serious," Liv said soothingly, "he will certainly tell you when we're back. But Jergen wanted to help him with it, and he took him out on a job of his own. And he didn't want you to stay behind alone." She looked sternly into the boy's face. "Jergen cares for you, Vilkas, for you both. He may not be your father, but to him, you're much more than just foundlings. He will always be there for you... for Farkas, like right now, and the same for you. Don't forget that either."

Huge bright eyes stared into her face. The boy swallowed heavily. "Okay," he whispered.

They sat together in silence, and slowly Liv felt the small body in her arms relax. Just when she wanted to release him and ask if he was as starving as she was herself, she heard a light snore. The boy slept, peaceful and quiet, cuddled into her warmth as if he belonged there.

The passengers of the carriage from Riften had only just finished to unload their baggage under the impatient eyes of the driver when the wagon from Solitude rumbled over the cobblestone road towards Whiterun's stables. As soon as the two people on its benches saw the other incomers, greetings, yelled questions and laughter sounded all over the place.

Farkas hopped from the carriage as soon as it had stopped moving, but fell to his knees with a pained yell when he hit the ground. Vilkas was at his side in an instant, helping him up.

"What happened?"

"A skeever bit me, and it got infected." The boy poked his own thigh with a proud grin.

"A skeever? You're such an icebrain!"

"I'm not! There were dozens of them, and I killed three all on my own before it got me!" His brother got a punch to the shoulder that made him stagger.

Jergen laughed and clasped Liv's wrist. "How did it go?" he asked lowly.

She gave him a small smile. "Horribly. And awesome. And... well, he's a remarkable little boy, your Vilkas." Her gaze went to her daughter who climbed slowly down the carriage. The girl was still paler than usual and moved with a certain strain. "Aela was attacked by a spriggan and Vilkas saved her life."

Jergen's eyes went wide. "Wow. You got much to tell, I think."

"Aye. And you? Any progress?"

His face lit up. "You've no idea. The boy learns best when he has at least 30 miles in his legs. I think we're over the worst, now he just needs lots of practicing."

"But that's awesome!"

"Yeah. It was much easier than I had thought. And Vignar is still an ignorant fool."

Chapter Text

“What’s that,” Askar’s rumbling voice boomed towards them, the Harbinger standing on top of the stairs that led from the temple to Jorrvaskr, “a bathing trip and a lousy skeever den, and half of you come back injured? And by carriage? Divines, what has become of the mighty Companions!” He threw his hands in the air and clapped them together pathetically, but his broad grin belied his roasting.

“Come on, Askar,” Jergen grinned, “this was vermin directly from Oblivion. I’m convinced they still bred and spawned while we were already killing them! All 23 of them!”

“Aye, and an encounter with a spriggan is also something not to be taken lightly,” Liv quipped in.

Askar’s eyebrow rose to his hairline. “23 skeever and a spriggan? I take that back. The carriages are forgiven.”

The Hall was crowded that evening, nobody wanting to miss the tales they had to tell. It wasn’t so much different from other occasions when Companions came back from a job well done, but this time it was the first time that the twins had taken part themselves and didn’t just listen to the reports of others. Leaning back in his seat with a full belly and a tankard in hand, Jergen looked around contently. Liv and he had brought each other up to date, Farkas had provided a hilarious pantomimic account of their fight against the skeever that took place on top of the long table and with the help of a dirty butterknife, and they had recounted their encounter with Talsgar the Bard, how they had rescued him and how his tales and songs had made the long journey to Dragon Bridge so much more enjoyable.

But although he had obviously lots of fun, the true star of the evening was Vilkas’ fight against the spriggan and how he had saved Aela. Liv let him talk, only chimed in when she thought it necessary to add some details, and Jergen watched pensively how differently the twins spoke about their adventures. Where Farkas obviously relived the events in his head and let his audience take part in it, Vilkas confined himself to the simple facts, and it took many questions, encouragements and praise for his wit and bravery to make him come out of his shell at least a bit.

But Jergen also felt an anxiety in Vilkas that wasn’t caused by the excitement of the past days or the attention he got. Liv had told him about her conversation with the boy, and judging the way he eyed his brother he was desperate to get to know why Jergen had taken him out on this job. What his brother’s problem was.

When Farkas’ eyes fell shut with increasing frequency and his head sagged against Kodlak’s shoulder, Jergen took the opportunity, lifted him into his arms and searched Vilkas’ gaze.

“Help me take your packs downstairs?” he asked lowly, careful not to wake the boy again. Vilkas nodded and grabbed the knapsacks they had dropped carelessly at the top of the stairs. When he hoisted Farkas’ pack over his shoulder, something fell out of the front pouch – a piece of deer horn, wittled into the form of a letter.

Jergen had already undressed Farkas from his leather gear and tucked him under the furs when Vilkas entered their room. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the sleeping boy for a moment before he turned to Vilkas with a warm smile. “A good night’s sleep will do him good. Better not disturb him now.” With that he stood up, laid a hand on Vilkas’ shoulder and led him out of the room and into his own.

The boy swallowed with nervousness. But Jergen just dropped down on his own bed, his back against the wall, popped open a bottle of mead and poured the golden liquid into two tankards. He patted at the place beside him. “Come sit with me for a moment, Vilkas.”

The boy took place hesitantly, taking off his boots and drawing his knees to his chest. Only when Jergen offered him one of the tankards – the bottom only barely covered with mead – he gave him a hesitating smile. The man took the same position as the boy, his forearms resting relaxed on his knees. For a moment, it became quiet, both of them sipping on their drinks.

“I’m proud of you, Vilkas,” Jergen said finally, tilting his head to be able to look into the boy’s face. “And not only because you were so brave against the spriggan. Liv told me about your travel and that you had a hard time with Aela. And still you defended her without a second thought. That’s the behaviour of a true shield-brother.”

Vilkas stared up to him with wide eyes. “I didn’t think anything then,” he said finally. “I didn’t think it was Aela. Just that I had to do something.”

A low laughter came from Jergen. “But that’s the best you can do in a situation like that. Stop thinking and just act. Many people have to learn that very painfully, some learn it never.” His index touched Vilkas’ temple briefly. “That you’re able to shut down your brain when it matters although it runs at full blast all the time, that shows that you have the spirit of a true warrior.” The boy blushed, hiding his face in his mug.

“But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. You’re curious, aren’t you?”

The boy’s breath hitched. “What’s the matter with Farkas?” he asked anxiously. “Is he ill? Is something wrong?”

Jergen gave him a warm smile. “No, he’s not ill and nothing’s wrong. Just… well, you see, it’s partly your fault that I had to make this journey with him. And get him bitten by 23 skeever.”

“He wasn’t bitten by 23 skeevers. Only by one,” the boy mumbled, but suddenly his head shot up. “My fault?” Nervousness stood in his eyes.

“Yep. Because of that letter you wrote.” Now the nervousness turned into distress, barely soothed by Jergen’s smile. “Don’t worry, Vilkas. I know that letter is a secret, and I swear I don’t know what it’s about. The problem is, Farkas doesn’t know either.”

“What? But how? I thought… why not?”

Jergen turned so he sat crosslegged and face to face with the boy, his elbows propped on his knees. “Farkas can’t read it,” he said matter-of-factly. “He’s learning it and he’s making great progress, but reading and writing doesn’t come as easily to him as it comes to you. That’s what we have worked on during the last days.”

“But… I thought… he can’t read it? But he’s been at Vignar’s lessons! And he always tells me all these stories!”

“He does what?“

Suddenly the boy’s face closed down. “When I have bad dreams and wake up at night… Farkas is always awake too. And then he tells me stories until I can sleep again. He knows so many… about dragons and giants and ghosts, and people who look like lizards. Are there really people who look like lizards? Are they like little dragons?”

Jergen sighed inwardly. There was so much he didn’t know about the boys. How could so little kids be so bloody complicated?

“Yes, there are people who look like lizards. They have scales and tails, like the cat-people you know from the caravans. But they’re nothing like dragons. They’re called Argonians, and they’re just… people. Dragons are long gone.”

“Farkas said the same. He also said that they can breathe underwater, and that they have a kingdom under the sea where they live. And that they ride on horkers.” The boy’s eyes gleamed, but then he shook his head. “I thought… where does he know all that from? I thought he read about it…”

Divines. Jergen took a deep breath. Sometimes Vilkas was obviously not quite as smart as everybody thought.

“No, he hasn’t read about it,” he said sternly. “He still needs some more practice before he can read whole stories. Just like you need some more practice to sneak through the woods and not scare away all the prey.”

He smiled as he saw the boy blush. “Yes, Liv told me of that incident too. But she also told me that you tried and that you make awesome rabbit snares, that you’ve improved with the bow and that you could be even better if you trained a bit more. Perhaps you should train with Aela.”

The boy shuffled nervously, remembering Aela’s condescending remarks. A crease formed between his brows. “But I still don’t know how Farkas knows all these things…”

“He makes them up, Vilkas. He invents them. He listens to the things we speak about at the fire… and when you wake up and need something to calm you down, he remembers it and takes whatever tumbles through his head in that moment and makes a story from it. For you. Nobody else knows these stories, just you two.”

“Wow.” The boy was obviously flabbergasted, and Jergen felt a sting of guilt that he had really believed that Vilkas would act out of spite towards his brother. Sometimes he was an obnoxious brat, he had terrible tempers, a habit to overrate himself and he could be quite nasty when he thought he was treated unjust, but he wasn’t malign. Especially not towards his twin. Never towards his twin.

“So… Farkas is something like a book.” The words came pensively, the boy gnawing at his lower lip, thinking so concentrated that Jergen couldn’t suppress a quiet chuckle. But Vilkas wasn’t to be disturbed, spinning his thought further. “Just that he can only read himself, because he doesn’t know how to do it with others.” He became quiet for a moment, and then it broke out of him. “Honestly, that’s a shame!”

Jergen laughed out loud. Precocious little rascal.

“You know…” he said, smiling as the boy looked expectantly at him, “Farkas loves stories. Good stories. Exciting stories. And so do you.” The child nodded. “I know the stuff Vignar makes you read is quite boring… all these wars and strategies and Harbingers and kingdoms… but you’ve certainly read books that are more exciting, haven’t you?”

His face lit up. “Yes! Askar has given me some of his!”

The divines bless their Harbinger and his bias for light readings. Although… he knew Askar also owned some books of more than questionable merit. He would have to make sure that Vilkas didn’t put his greedy little hands on these.

But at the moment, this was his smallest problem.

“Well, Farkas has shared his stories with you. How about you share your stories with him now?”

“But I’m no good at telling stories.”

“Doesn’t matter. Someone has already done that and written them down. How about you read them together with your brother? You could read them to him, and practice the letters with him and show him how to read them all for himself.”

An excited gleam appeared in the light blue eyes of the boy. “You think I can do that?”

“I’m sure you can do that.” And you’ll easily do a better job than Vignar. “And perhaps, one day, you can even write up Farkas’ stories together, so others can get to know them as well. I think everybody would love to read about lizard people riding on horkers.”

“You mean… make Farkas into a real book?”

“Exactly,” the man laughed, “make all the stories in Farkas into a real book. It would be a shame to let them go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Oh, boy… and one more thing. About that letter…” The look of contrition on Vilkas’ face was heartmelting. “Just tell him what it’s about, okay? I think he’s really curious.”

“Okay,” the boy said lightly, already turning and running out of the room. But he stopped once again, standing in the doorway.

“Jergen?”

“Yes?”

“You think Liv will take me out again? On a hunting trip?”

“Of course she will. Especially if you train with Aela.”

“Okay.”

Who said that kids were complicated?

“My Jarl, with all due respect…”

Askar’s voice didn’t sound very respectful. More… demanding. Demanding respect. As he was entitled to, as Harbinger of the Companions. Whiterun wouldn’t even exist without the Companions.

The Jarl knew this quite well. Usually the two men were on good terms, with the Companions fulfilling many of the Jarl’s contracts and thus contributing greatly to the Hold’s safety. And although his expression now clearly showed a trace of condescension, he couldn’t afford to snub the warriors. Especially when two of them appeared fully geared in front of his throne, uncalled and far off his usual court hours. Even if they only appeared because a child had had an accident.

“Askar… Jergen,” he said reassuringly, resorting to dropping their respective titles in an effort to lighten the atmosphere, “honestly, I don’t see the problem. It was just a child’s game. Things like this happen!”

“Oh no, Balgruuf.” Jergen’s voice was dangerously calm. “It’s not a child’s game when one of my boys is brought back to Jorrvaskr unconscious and bruised as if he got into a fistfight with a troll! And it’s even less a game when he wakes and is totally out of his mind. We’re talking about Vilkas here! Vilkas, rambling about a voice he hears, and that he’s the master of something! At first, he didn’t even recognise his brother! Farkas is a mess too, and they were with your son when it happened!” Even if he had started quietly, now he yelled.

“But they’re just kids!” The man on the throne shouted back, throwing his hands in the air. “Who knows what’s going on in their heads!”

Jergen gritted his teeth. “What do you imply? That the twins have gone crazy?”

“Of course not, but…”

Askar chimed in. “Where is Hrongar, Balgruuf? I want to know what happened, and as you obviously don’t know what’s going on in your own palace, he is the only one who can tell us. These boys are not mad, and I recognise a danger when I see one. Something strange is at work here, and nobody can say if whatever happened to Vilkas can’t just as well happen to someone else too. Regardless of age. Gods, not even the calm spell the priest applied on him had any effect!”

The Jarl paled, his hands gripping the armrests of his throne so hard that his knuckles went white. “I don’t know,” he had to admit. “I… don’t have time to watch every step of him. And he’s twelve already. He knows what he’s doing!”

“Not so sure about that,” Jergen muttered. Everybody knew that the Jarl’s younger son had the privilege of fools in Whiterun. His mother, daughter of the count of Bruma, was a pretty doll who thought her duties as a wife and mother fulfilled with giving birth to two strong boys. And the only education his father placed any value on was the military drill he needed to follow in his brother’s footsteps. The younger Balgruuf had climbed the ranks in the Imperial Legion with astonishing ease and velocity, and the Jarl wanted a similar career for Hrongar too. Apart from that, he only looked after him when the boy in his selfproclaimed role as the leader of Whiterun’s gang of children had caused another disaster and he had to appease outraged parents or furious merchants.

Not that anybody had any effective measures against the Jarl’s son. Not that he really cared. Not that it ever had any serious consequences.

Until now. Now the Companions were involved, and Jergen was incredibly thankful that his Harbinger hadn’t hesitated for a single moment to accompany him here.

The Jarl rubbed his hand over his face, then he straightened himself as if he had come to a decision.

“Alright,” he said, “I’m still not convinced he has done anything wrong, but let’s see if we can find out what happened.” He turned to his housecarl, a slender Dunmer who had listened stoically to the conversation so far. But her tense posture made obvious that she was alert, that she’d protect her Jarl even against the wrath of the Companions. “Irileth, show us where the boy was found.”

The woman nodded silently and took the lead, up to the second level of the palace, over stairs and through endless corridors until they reached the end of a long aisle that led past servants’ quarters, storerooms and spare bedrooms. It expanded into an oriel room, the large window providing a breathtaking view over the plains. On one side, a door led to an armoury full of old, rusty gear, on the other a small wooden stair ascended into the darkness of the attic.

“Here,” she said, pointing at the foot of the stairs. The stains of blood on the tiles were obviously fresh. The Jarl stared at the brownish blotches and blanched, sweat appearing on his temples. He leant heavily against the window sill.

“No…,” he breathed. Askar grabbed the shoulder of the suddenly shaking man, searching his bewildered face.

“Balgruuf? What’s the matter? That’s Vilkas’ blood, but it’s not that he’s dead!”

The gaze that found his was pleading. “Divines… Askar.” The Jarl swallowed heavily. “Harbinger.” He rubbed his neck nervously, but then he straightened himself and took a deep breath. “Irileth, return to your duties. Thank you,” he said sternly, waiting until his housecarl had vanished from sight.

“I’ll show you what happened,” he said finally, distress in his voice, “or what I think what happened. Come with me.” He took a torch from a bracket and started to climb the wooden stairs, ignoring their clueless looks. “Gods… he has heard a voice. It can’t be… but… what if?” he muttered while he led the way. When they found the inconspicuous wooden door at the top unlocked and ajar, he just shook his head heavily and pushed it open.

The attic of the palace was huge, spanning over the whole expanse of the highest level, and it was crammed full with stuff. Old furniture, chests with various contents, mannequins and poles with oldfashioned clothes and armour, lockers, racks and shelves full of dull, rusty weapons and shields. Whatever wasn’t needed or used any more over the last centuries had found its way here. Most of it was useless and worthless rubble, but there may have been one or another trinket amongst all this trash, and the men could easily imagine the excitement of the children as they discovered this paradise of junk.

But Balgruuf obviously wanted to show them something special. He led them through the room, single rays of light dancing on spangles of dust. It smelled of age – old leather, mouldering wood, disintegrating fabric and rusty metal.

In the rearmost corner, where nearly no daylight fell in, a partition was divided from the rest of the room, forming a small shack that was made from thick, sturdy oaken boards. A door was set into one of the walls, equally solid and secured by an enormous iron lock.

As Balgruuf grabbed the handle, the door swang open with barely a sound. Sheer terror spread over his face. Behind it stood only a single, raw table, a plain wooden weapon holder on top of it.

The sword it held was exceptional though, and the Companions got closer with awe on their faces.

It looked like an Akaviri weapon, the long, dark blade slim and slightly curved, the hilt inlaid with a simple golden spiral. But it wasn’t Akaviri. It was much older, old enough to be called timeless.

Askar couldn’t resist and took it reverently from its place, assessing its perfect balance. He arched a questioning eyebrow at the Jarl as he gave it a try with a few swings and Balgruuf jumped back with a startled gasp.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?” he asked with a smirk. “That’s a fine weapon you have here.” He tested the blade with a thumb. “But it’s blunt. You should take it to Eorlund.”

The frightened expression on Balgruuf’s face made him halt his movements though, and he laid the weapon carefully back. Expectantly he waited for an explanation.

The Jarl hesitated, sweat forming on his forehead. “Eorlund’s father was the last smith who has seen this blade,” he said finally, his voice weak. “He tried to destroy it, but he was unsuccessful… not even the Skyforge was hot enough to melt it down. And I do trust you, friend. But that’s exactly the problem.” He swallowed heavily, his gaze flitting over the suspicious expressions of the Companions. “This is the Ebony Blade, Askar.”

Stunned amazement formed on the warriors’ faces. “The Ebony Blade?” Jergen asked incredulously. Balgruuf just nodded. “Mephala’s cursed sword? The Blade of Deceit? The Blade that grows in power with every friend it slays?”

“Yes,” Balgruuf whispered.

The silence after this revelation hang between the men like poison, quivering with tension. Suddenly the weapon wasn’t beautiful any more… quite the contrary, Askar felt as if its mere sight made his skin crawl. When he finally pulled himself together and left the room with long strides, giving the blade a last, disgusted gaze, the other men followed him quietly. The Harbinger snorted in snide annoyance as Balgruuf turned the key in the lock, but he didn’t say a word until they had reached the main hall.

“A child!” he barked out with a mirthless laughter, “she chooses a child! A weird sense of humour these Daedra have!”

“I don’t think she meant it to be funny, Askar,” Balgruuf said quietly. “I’m sorry…”

“Then you can tell her that I’m indeed not amused!” the Harbinger bellowed, glaring at his Jarl. “I don’t care what you do, Balgruuf. Throw it into the Red Mountain, bury it under a glacier, take it to the Throat of the World or to Atmora – I don’t care, as long as you make sure that nobody lays eyes or hands on this thing ever again.” His voice became threateningly calm. “A few planks and a lock simple enough that your son could open it – what did you think?“

He turned on his heels, waving at Jergen. “Come, brother. We have some souls to mend.” Shortly before he left the hall, he turned once more, his menacing growl easily carrying over the distance. “And keep Hrongar in check. Or I’ll do it.”

All complacency had left the Jarl’s face. He nodded silently. Askar prayed that he realised the seriousness of the situation. That he truely understood what abomination he kept here, openly and accessible in his palace.

He stormed down the stairs to the wind district without looking back, the guards backing off from the fuming man. He stopped only in front of Jorrvaskr’s entrance, exhaling a deep breath and turning to his friend.

“Speak with the boys, Jergen, please. Find out what this prince has put into Vilkas’ brain. You will find the right words… and he is smart, he will understand that it will do him no good, no matter what she promised.”

Jergen nodded slowly. “Okay. I hope he’s awake.”

On his way down to the living quarters Tilma called after him and pressed two plates filled with grilled chicken, some vegetables and two sweetrolls lying at the side into his hands. “Farkas refuses to leave his brother,” she said with a warm smile, “but they will be starving by now. Take it down to them, please?”

He gave her a thankful smile. Jorrvaskr was obviously not the safest place to grow up, but at least there were always people who genuinely cared for the children. “Of course. Thank you, Tilma.”

When Jergen opened the door to the boys’ room, he was greeted by the tip of an arrow that was targeted right at his chest, the boy behind it giggling at his staggered expression. Vilkas leant against the headboard of his bed, Farkas was squatted relaxed at the foot end.

“Put that down, Vilkas,” he said, setting the plates on a table, “I see you’re better already.” He couldn’t suppress a grin although Vilkas was still pale as death and looked terrible with the bandages wound around his head, his arm and his ribs. The fall down the stairs had earned him more bruises and scratches than the encounter with the spriggan. But at least he hadn’t suffered any fractures, and such injuries were no reason for distress. They had seen worse already, broken bones and deep slash wounds, and Vilkas even sported a grin as he laid the arrow away. He seemed strangely cheerful, his good mood nearly as open and boyish as his brother’s. Jergen realised that Farkas hadn’t left his twin for a single minute since he had been brought out of the palace. And perhaps this was exactly what made the whole affair bearable for them both.

“Look what Aela made for me!” Vilkas exclaimed.

“Did she now?” Jergen examined the bow closely. It was a fine weapon, made from walnut wood, a bit too large for the boy, but he would grow into it. “And will she practice with you?”

“Yep. And Liv. And with Farkas too. She promised.”

“But I don’t need archery training!” the larger boy chimed in, making Jergen laugh.

“If a huntress like Aela offers her training, you’d be quite stupid to reject it. Even I can still learn from Liv!”

As the boys started to wolf into their food he watched them for a moment, becoming serious.

“Guys,” he said finally, “we gotta talk about what happened today.”

Two pairs of eyes shot up to his face as he sat down on the edge of the bed. It got a bit crammed with the three of them, but nobody seemed to mind.

Vilkas chewed and swallowed, looking suddenly distressed. “I’m not crazy, Jergen. I heard that voice! Really!”

“I know, and of course you’re not crazy,” Jergen answered calmly. “Tell me what it said, please.”

“That the sword is meant to be mine, and that I will be its master if I take it. That it will make me stronger and my enemies weaker.” He looked down. “It was weird… but it was also kind. The voice. She was… gentle. A bit like Tilma. And then… I felt something in my head, and that was scary. Hrongar ran away and Farkas screamed, and… I don’t know any more. Only that I woke up in the temple.”

“But how did you get up there in the first place?”

Vilkas bit his lip, looking from his stepfather to his brother. “They’ve always argued who has the best weapons, Hrongar and he,” Farkas said finally. “Everybody knows that Skyforge steel is the best. But Hrongar didn’t believe it.”

“Yes, and he said he can prove it,” Vilkas added lowly. “He said his father had the best sword ever made, and he was angry that Farkas came with me this morning. But I wanted him to see it too.”

“Okay,” Jergen said, “you’ve been lucky. We’ve all been lucky.” He looked sternly at the boys. “Hrongar didn’t know what he was doing today. That sword he showed you… it’s not just a weapon, but you know that already. His father hid it up there because he didn’t want anybody to find it, and least of all little boys like you. It’s… it has a certain magic, and it’s evil. It tries to find someone who uses it.” His index came up and touched Vilkas’ forehead. “That you didn’t take it like the voice told you shows how strong your spirit is. But if you ever encounter something like that again… come to me directly, okay? To me or to Askar. Both of you. Promise.”

He really, really hoped they’d understand the seriousness of his request. Even if they didn’t understand what exactly had happened today – he barely did himself, who in his right mind would dabble with Daedra? – but that they’d at least realise that they had escaped a very real danger today, and that there were worse threats than poison or steel.

When both heads nodded sternly, he let out a relieved sigh, laying his hands on the shoulders of both boys. Two pairs of bright eyes watched him intently.

“It was good that you told Farkas about it, Vilkas. You should have come to me, but you didn’t know that… but that Farkas was there with you, perhaps it saved your life. I won’t always be here, or Askar, or Liv. But you two, you can always look out for each other. You will do fine no matter what as long as you stick together.”

When Liv caught her shield-brother standing at the door to the twins’ room, peeking through the gap and a broad grin on his face, he motioned her silently to come over and have a look herself.

The children lay prone side by side on Vilkas’ bed, two dark heads sticking together, only quiet mumbling audible. Vilkas talked more, but Farkas repeated some of what his brother said, his finger crawling along the lines of a book that lay open on a pillow in front of them.

“Ha! Got you!” The smaller twin punched his brother into the shoulder. “Don’t be lazy! You’re just repeating what I said, but that’s not what’s written here!”

Confusion spread over Farkas’ face. “It isn’t?”

“No, it isn’t. Don’t cheat. I know you can memorise stuff awfully fast, but now you gotta read. What did I say?”

“Here, polish my sword.”

“And what’s standing here?” Farkas gave his brother a slightly desperate glance, but then he bent over the page, chewing on the inside of his cheek in concentration.

“Here… po… lish… my…”

“Go on.”

Jergen watched in awe how the boy struggled, how his mouth silently formed single letters and combined them in a second step, and how Vilkas watched him with much more patience than Vignar had ever shown. After every syllable, Farkas looked expectantly at his brother, and Vilkas either grinned and nodded or shook his head, pointing at the letter where he had it wrong. And Farkas tried again and again until he had it right, the approval of his twin his only reward.

And Vignar dared to say he didn’t have any discipline, that he didn’t even try. Ignorant fool.

“Spear! Spear, not sword!”

Farkas’ outcry filled Jergen with silly, unwarranted pride, feeling that his own contribution to this success had been quite meager. A pride that was rudely disturbed by the hysterical giggle behind him. When he turned, Liv barely suppressed a burst of laughter, and she pulled him hastily away from the door.

“Do you know what they’re reading there, brother?”

Jergen shook his head. “No. Does it matter?”

But what she whispered into his ear shook his indifference to the core, and he stormed down the hallway towards the Harbinger’s quarters with a furious roar.

“ASKAR! I’ll KILL you! They’re SEVEN!“

The Harbinger poked his head out of his door, barechested and clad only in threadbare breeches, and looked suspiciously at the approaching Companion.

“Calm down, brother. Vilkas wanted something with Argonians, and that’s all I have with Argonians.”

“Askar…” The threatening rumble would have been frightening to a lesser man.

But the Harbinger only threw up his hands in a gesture of annoyed boredom. “They’re seven, Jergen! They don’t get it anyway!”

Jergen stopped dead, staring at his Harbinger, and slowly a broad grin spread over his face.

Askar was right. For once, they wouldn’t get it. Both of them.

Not yet, at least.