Chapter Text
Freyja shifted nervously as the ornately carved doors of Jorrvaskr loomed in front of her. She had never thought she would see it in person, yet here she was, hands resting tentatively on the ancient doors. The wood had been worn smooth by hands of the warriors it had housed through the millennia. When she was a child, she would sit on her father’s knee, and weave tiny braids in his long blond hair while he told her of the legendary mead hall. It was older than the city of Whiterun that surrounded around it. The only thing that predated it was the Skyforge, which some say was carved out of the rocks of Skyrim by the gods themselves.
The petite half-Breton/half-Nord woman had asked around the town, and everyone spoke very highly of The Companions and encouraged her to join. Though not quite the legendary warriors they used to be, the guild was still well-known and highly respected. The citizens talked of honor and glory, which she didn’t much care about these days. They also said it was a good way to make some coin, and that the group provided food and a bed to their members. THAT she very much cared about! All she had to her name were the clothes on her body, the iron sword at her hip, and the wooden bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. It wasn’t much. Especially considering that she had taken the weapons from her fallen foes.
She looked down at the scorched and bloody rags she was wearing and sighed. Her plan to move to Skyrim and start a nice, simple life was turning out to be a huge mistake. Upon leaving the Cyrodill, she had been well-outfitted with every imaginable supply from her shop. She had been wearing supple leather armor tinted forest green to help her blend into the trees. Her bag was packed full with a few precious family possessions she couldn’t bear to part with and the best potions, tastiest food, and softest blankets and clothing the Imperial City could offer. She had equipped herself with a fine Daedric dagger, and an ebony bow she had made herself. When she wielded that bow, it became an extension of her body, and no prey could escape her. It had been years since she had seriously hunted, though. She had been looking forward to putting her skills to use again.
Then the thunderstorm had hit, and she had sought shelter within the Stormcloak camp. The gorgeous Ralof had been quite chivalrous and offered to let her sleep in his tent, while he stood guard. She had felt guilty leaving the kind soldier out in the storm. She decided to thank him for his hospitality by pulling him into the tent with her. It had been a good long while since she had been with a man. Well, actually, she had NEVER been with a man, but she found they weren’t all that different than Dark Elves. Her jumbled thoughts and a bottle of wine had been her only companions during her week on the road. Now all the energy and emotion had built up until she was ready to explode. The big blond hadn’t seemed to mind helping her burn off that energy, and he was more than successful at taking her mind off of everything, even if it was only for the night. His tent had been dirty, and his blankets rough, but his eyes were kind. When they were done, he had held her close until he drifted off. His deep even breathing and warm arms had lulled her into her first sound night of sleep in months, maybe even years.
The Imperials had raided at dawn, and had taken everyone prisoner. They were surprised to find a well-dressed young woman among the rough and wild rebels, and decided she must be a spy. They took pleasure in stripping her of her fine gear. She wouldn’t need weapons or fancy armor where she was going. Then the Imperials made her watch as they doled out the keepsakes and the supplies from her pack. She had to be restrained when a Captain took her parents’ wedding rings. When one of the men snapped her sister’s flute, she went wild, biting one captor’s hand and kicking another in the groin. The last thing she saw was the butt of a club descending toward her.
She woke up in a wagon, blood dripping from a knot on her head and into her eyes. Ralof’s hopeless voice rang in her ears. Her heart ached as he apologized for her being caught up with them. She told him it was alright, and she forgave him. When the Empire sentenced her to death she accepted it, even feeling a bit relieved. The young officer, who seemed to be on familiar though unfriendly terms with Ralof, promised she’d get a proper burial. She appreciated the small kindness.
Then that damned dragon showed up and turned her world upside down! Instead of the finality and peace of the afterlife, she was thrown into a world of blood, chaos and fire. The air shimmered with heat and reeked of blood and burnt flesh. The terrified screams of the citizens rang in her ears. Everything in her had wanted to stop and help them, but she knew it was useless. The dragon roared, and she could hear all the hate, death and destruction in his voice. Then Ralof appeared, and she followed him gladly. He had used his knowledge of the area and his skills as a warrior to get them to safety. They shared a bed at the Inn in Riverwood that night, relishing that they were still counted among the living. He had wanted her to stay with him, to travel with him to Windhelm and join the rebellion, but she declined. She had come to Skyrim for a life of peaceful solitude and wanted to avoid getting caught up in the conflict that ravaged her homeland.
Of course, now instead of returning to her childhood home in Riften and living the simple life of a lonely hunter, she was in Whiterun, planning to join a band of noble crusaders in search of fellowship, glory, and gold! At least she’d be fighting her own battles, and getting paid for it.
That is assuming they let me in. She heaved a sigh and pushed the heavy doors open with a creak.
The inside of the hall was absolute chaos. There was a white-haired older woman filling tankards with mead at the table who smiled at her kindly. Two men, one wiry and ancient, the other middle aged and balding, sat on a bench near the door discussing politics. There appeared to be a fistfight taking place in the wide open space to the left between an Nord woman and a Dark Elf. The place smelled of ale, sweat, blood, and food. A large crackling fire roared in a hearth that dominated the room, casting a warm orange glow over the ancient wooden fixtures and stone walls. She couldn’t help but smile a bit. The atmosphere reminded her of the Ashlander camps where she had spent her teen years. She watched as the Nord beat the elf into submission. Then the woman stood up, her fierce eyes roaming the room until they landed on Freyja. She dusted off her studded armor and made her way over to the newcomer.
“Excuse me, but who’s in charge here?” Freyja asked apprehensively. She shifted her weight, and winced as the rough fabric of her tunic rubbed against the raw flesh of her dragon-burned arm.
The woman sneered and looked her up and down. “What? You think you can just waddle in here and start asking questions?” She removed her helmet, allowing her white-blond hair to fall about her face.
Freyja knew enough warriors to see the gesture for what it was. The woman was basically saying, “I don’t need my armor. You’re not a threat.” She balled her fists, and was about to let the shrew know just how much of a threat she was, when a she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Be nice, Njada. I invited her.” A deep voice rumbled.
Freyja turned to see the massive Nord she had met in the fields earlier grinnng at her. He had cleaned most of the giant’s gore off, though there was still a spatter of blood on one of his forearms. The warpaint around his cheerful eyes had become a bit smeared in the process as well. The odd combination made him somehow terrifying and adorable at the same time.
“HER?!” Njada’s dark eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “You can’t be serious! She looks like she could barely take on a rabbit!”
“You didn’t see her in action” Aela countered. The statuesque redhead walked up behind Farkas and smiled at the potential recruit. “She shot a giant in the eye from two fields away!”
Freyja felt sufficiently vindicated. She turned and glared at the rude Nord woman, who turned on her heel and stormed out the door. On her way, she made sure to bump into Freyja’s arm, causing the burned flesh to peel and bleed again. Freyja stifled a hiss as the pain shot through her and quietly cursed the woman to Oblivion.
Farkas, clearly having overheard her, snorted. “Glad you decided to join us, sister,” he chuckled, patting the small brunette on the shoulder. “I think I’m going to like you being here. You should meet my twin, Vilkas. He should be around here somewhere. He’s better with people.” He looked around eagerly, hoping to spy his brother in the hall. Freyja looked around as well, but she didn’t see anyone that resembled the brawny brute. Then again, twins didn’t always look alike. Her mother and aunt had been twins, and they had been as different as night and day!
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, brother,” Aela cautioned, fighting back a smirk of her own. She took Freyja’s bow and arrows from her and set them near the door. “She still needs to talk to The Harbinger, and pass her test.” She directed Freyja towards the stairs. “Speak to Kodlak Whitemane. He should be down in his quarters.”
After the ruckus upstairs, the living quarters of Jorrvaskr seemed as quiet as a tomb. The shoes Ralof’s sister had given her made no noise on the stone flooring as she made her way down the hall. She shivered as the cool air wafted over her exposed arms. The lower floor was below ground and so it lacked windows, but someone had made up for it by making sure it was well lit with plenty of candles, lanterns, and chandeliers. The hall had a homey feel to it, despite the stillness. As she neared the wooden double doors at the end, she heard voices and hesitated. She didn’t want to interrupt anything, and the one of the voices sounded fairly troubled.
“We’ll talk of that later,” a second, more gravelly voice said. “But now, a stranger comes to our hall.”
Freyja stepped back, surprised. How did they know I was out here? There’s no way they could have heard me! She knew she was not strong or fast, but she was a damn good sneak!
The doors swung open to reveal a Nord man scowling down at her. He was tall and lean, with sharp features. His dark brown hair hung just below his strong jawline which sported a few days‘ worth of stubble. Silver grey eyes stood out in sharp contrast to his dark warpaint. He scanned her up and down and, without a word, turned and sat back down at the table. He may have looked like a thinner version of Farkas, but his demeanor couldn’t have been any more different.
Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions sat at the table in the corner, looking at her oddly. He seemed about to say something, but quickly changed his mind. His beard twitched up to give her a welcoming smile. His long hair was indeed white with two braids framing his craggy face. His eyes, despite their age, were clear, calm and alert as they scanned the new arrival. He was the type of man who could you put you at ease instantly. She could see why he was in charge around here.
She noticed he had applied his warpaint in the same Nordic spiral as she. The only difference was that hers was permanent. She had the Ashlander wise woman do the design as part of her initiation ceremony when she was fourteen. All Ashlanders took on a tribal brand that marked them as separate from other Dunmer. It was one of the few traditions that had survived when they migrated to the mainland after the Red Year. Freyja had been keen to become a Hearthfriend of the tribe, but didn’t want to forget her roots in Skryim, so she had her brand done in a Nordic spiral pattern on her right cheek. It had faded in the eight years since, and was now just a few shades paler than her fair skin. She saw the old man glance at her cheek and smile.
Vilkas cleared his throat, and crossed his arms impatiently. His scowl deepened, if that was even possible. Freyja’s resolve wavered under his withering gaze. She had no idea what she had done to offend him so!
“I’d like to join the Companions.” She announced, sounding more confident than she felt. The young man snorted in disbelief, tossing his hair as he turned to his mentor.
“Would you now?” Kodlak asked, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s have a look at you.”
Freyja suddenly felt very self-conscious. Her once lithe form had filled out considerably as she got older, and spending the past four years as a merchant had not helped matters. These days she looked more suited to serve Lady Dibella than Talos or Hircine. Being scrutinized by two muscular, battle-scarred warriors in rather impressive sets of steel armor did not help her confidence. She resisted the temptation to cross her arms. Musn’t show weakness. You’ve nothing left to lose, so let them look. She held her head high, and looked the Harbinger straight in the eye.
“Hm, yes. Perhaps a certain strength of spirit,” the old man mused. His kind eyes twinkled, reminding her of her father. “Tell me, child. What is your name?”
“Freyja, sir,” she answered politely. She liked the old man already.
“Master! You cannot truly be considering accepting... her!” Vilkas was confounded.
Freyja’s eyebrows shot up. This is supposed to be the twin with the social skills? She bit her tongue and forced herself to remain silent.
“I am nobody’s master, Vilkas,” the old man scolded. “And last I checked, we have have some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts.” He leveled his gaze at the young warrior. Though he denied being the master, there was no doubting his authority.
Vilkas looked properly chastised, and sat back a bit. “Apologies. But perhaps this isn’t the time,” he said significantly. “Besides, I’ve never even heard of this outsider!”
Freyja had had enough of his arrogance. “I’ve never heard of you either, but you don’t see me being an ass about it,” she snapped. Much to her satistfaction, the veins in his neck began to throb and he turned slightly purple. She could practically hear him grinding his teeth.
The Harbinger chuckled warmly. “Easy lad. Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their hearts.”
“And their arm,” Vilkas muttered. His eyes locked on the raw burn that trailed from Freyja’s shoulder and down her right arm. She looked at him defiantly, flexing her hand in spite of the pain. She saw a dragon and lived to tell about it. She earned her wound and she’d be damned if she was going to be looked down upon because of it!
“Of course,” Kodlak frowned at the wound. “How are you in battle, my dear?”
“I can handle myself,” Freyja answered simply. It was no lie. She had been trained by some of the best warriors in Morrowind, as well as her father, who was a gifted hunter. While she was nowhere near as great as her mentors, she was confident she could hold her own.
The old man nodded. “That may be so. Vilkas here will test your arm.”
Vilkas looked like he had swallowed a torchbug. Freyja didn’t feel much better about the situation either. Swordplay was not her strong point.
“Vilkas, take her out into the yard and see what she can do,” Kodlak smiled at his protegé.
“Aye” Vilkas grunted unhappily.
Vilkas waited impatiently at the top of the stairs for the girl to catch up with him. He was furious that Kodlak was making him go through this! Now he’d have to take this wounded little woman out into the yard, and beat her in front of everyone. It was hardly the thing a noble warrior like him should do! A darker part of him did relish in the opportunity to repay her for her flippant attitude, though. She’d learn he was not a someone to be disrespected! He felt his beastblood surge at the opportunity to prove his authority.
I am in control of the the blood. It does not control me. He repeated the mantra in his head, trying to steady his breathing as the fire burned through his veins.
“Where is your shield?” he growled as the girl walked up to him. She stopped and grabbed a rusty iron sword from its post by the door. Next to it sat a pathetic wooden bow and a beat-up quiver with four iron arrows jutting out of it. “Did you come here totally unprepared?”
“I don’t have a shield,” her vivid green eyes blazed fiercely as she met his gaze. “All I have is the clothes on my back and the weapons at my side.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. She wasn’t asking for pity, just giving information.
Still, he felt a pang of sympathy for the girl- Freyja, had she said? No matter. I’ll likely not see her again. She had virtually nothing, and now he was about to take her confidence on the battlefield as well. Why am I always the one who has to destroy the dreams of the hopefuls? He looked down at the worn and bleeding woman, and decided he’d at least let her down gently. Sighing, he sheathed his greatsword and grabbed a banded iron shield that was laying nearby. “Come on, whelp.”
Once in the training yard, he turned and examined his opponent. She was short... almost as short as a Breton, though not as slight. However, she had the high brow, clear eyes, and straight nose of a Nord. She looked strong, but soft. Very soft. The dirty rags she was wearing did her no favors, but he could see hints of a substantial bosom. She had a rope tied as a belt around her delicate waist. Her lips were pink and full, and he ignored the urge to nibble them. His beastblood was rapidly changing from bloodlust to just plain lust. His mantra was not helping this time.
“You ready?” he asked gruffly, hoisting the shield up.
She looked uncertainly at the sword she gripped in her hand and a stray lock of dark brown hair fell across her face. “I’m really more of an archer...”
“No excuses!” he barked. “Show me what you can do!” Best to get it over with quickly and send her on her way.
He was surprised when she attacked him, wielding the sword in her injured arm. Her blows were quick, if not terribly strong. They were well placed, and he was actually having to work to block her! She landed a particularly good strike on the left side and staggered him. He growled and pushed her back with the shield. She made a strangled noise of pain when the iron connected with her burn, and he felt terrible. She didn’t stop though, so neither did he. He was surprised to find he was actually enjoying sparring with her! He took a beat to shift his foot position. She used the opportunity to toss to her sword to her left hand, and began her attacks anew. These were more wild, and not as fast, but still decent. She fought smart, keeping her right arm tucked to her side to protect her injury from any further impacts with his shield. She turned her wrist and sideswiped him unexpectedly. He stumbled backward as the shield flew from his hand and clattered into the stone steps of the porch.
“Alright!” he couldn’t help a bit of a chuckle. “That’s enough.” He wasn't often surprised, but this girl was more than he had bargained for!
She wrung her hand and panted, looking at him like he was insane. She smelled like burnt flesh, blood, dirt, and fire, but under that there was the faintest trace of something like apples mixed with tundra cotton. He noticed her arm bleeding freely where it had connected to the shield. “What happened here?” he asked, taking her hand and carefully stretching out the limb to examine the wound. Her normally pale flesh was livid red and burnt brown, and there were parts where it been scraped away. The wound itself looked angry, with some parts of it swelling and turning a slight purple.
“A dragon,” she answered, tugging her hand away with a wince.
His eyes widened. “You... were at Helgen?” They had heard news of the dragon attack yesterday morning. He could still scarcely believe it! Dragons were a thing of legend, and yet standing here before him was proof they existed, in all her charred and bloody glory! He wanted to ask her about the attack. What was it like to face a dragon? There had never been first-hand accounts in any of the myriad of books he had read.
“Yes. Now, did I pass the test?” she seemed eager to change the subject.
Vilkas could hear her heart hammering and her eyes had dropped to the ground. An almost imperceptible shudder passed through her body. It must have been an awful thing to see. He did not like being denied information, but he decided to let it slide this once. “You’ve passed for now," he admitted. "But you’re still a whelp,” he unsheathed his sword and handed it to her, smirking as the weight caught her off guard and the tip smacked the ground. “Careful!” he snapped. “That thing is worth more than you are, new blood. Take it up to the Skyforge and have Eorlund sharpen it.” She lifted the great steel blade with a grunt.
He turned away haughtily, but smiled to himself when he saw her scowl out of the corner of his eye. The girl has fire. She just might make something out of herself. He continued to watch her in his peripheral vision as she trudged up the stairs to the Skyforge, admiring the way her full hips swayed. He’d better keep a tight reign on himself while she was around, or Athis wouldn’t be the only master of a one-handed skill! He made his way down into the living quarters and found Tilma putting Freyja’s little bow and arrows on a bed in the corner.
“How did it go?” she asked, smoothing out the wrinkles in the green woolen blanket.
“She’s got some skill with the blade,” he admitted, leaning against the door frame. “She needs to work on her stamina and strengthening her off hand, but there’s potential.”
“‘Potential’ eh?” the old woman said with a knowing smile. She turned to raise an eyebrow at the young man she had practically raised. There was no fooling her.
Vilkas allowed himself a grin. “Aye.”
“And did you show any ‘potential’ as well, or were you your usual charming self?” she asked as she turned and began fluffing the pillow on the bed.
“Well, I... um....” he rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. Farkas may have credited him as having the better social skills of the pair, but no one else ever did!
“Ah, I thought so,” Tilma clucked disapprovingly. Vilkas thought of all the nights he had stayed in knitting with her, while his brother went out with a girl. Vilkas had had women in the past, more than he cared to admit. Unfortunately, it never seemed to take very long for him to drive them away with his surly attitude. At thirty four, he was starting to give up hope that he’d ever settle down.
Vilkas straightened up and cleared his throat, pushing his worries to the back of his mind. “The New Blood will need a hot bath and some fresh clothes,” he instructed Tilma. “And her arm needs tending to,” he added. Burns could be nasty if not treated properly. “I’ve got some healing potions in my room. I’ll set them out for you to give to her.” He paused. “Only, don’t tell her they’re from me. We don’t want any her thinking I’m going to coddle her.” She was still a whelp after all, and he was her trainer, not her nursemaid!
“Of course,” she smiled, patting him on the chest as she passed through the door. “The great an mighty Vilkas would NEVER stoop so low as to help a lowly new blood.” She cackled as she made her way through the rough wooden door and up the stairs to the main floor.
Vilkas grinned and made his way to his room. He peeled off his armor and flopped down in bed. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, and was starting to feel the effects. As he drifted off, he allowed himself to smile. First dragons and now a pretty new whelp to boss around. Things were definitely getting interesting around here!