Work Text:
“Huh.”
Vilkas looked up from Hallgerd’s Tale, glancing towards the closed doors of the kitchen from where the sound came.
His brother had come back from town after helping settle a dispute, arms loaded with various sorts of things wrapped in linen. Before Vilkas could ask about any of it, though, Farkas had hurried to the kitchen and sealed the doors behind him. He’d been in there for nearly an hour, and Vilkas’s curiosity had increased for each minute that passed. Aside from training or fighting, little could enthrall his brother for such a period of time. Whatever it was had interested his twin greatly, and Vilkas would be lying if he said he didn’t want to know what it was.
He glanced around the Mead Hall for any of the other Companions or whelps. Aside from Torvar plastered to the floor, out cold, everyone else was on a job or training. Vilkas held his breath and strained his ears. Inside the doors he could hear mumbling from his brother, a crack as something snapped, and fizzling. Nothing too uncommon to be heard from the kitchen, but nothing he usually heard from his brother. Since when had Farkas begun cooking? Had Tilma roped him into it?
Vilkas closed the book and stood. Maybe that’s just what it was. Maybe Farkas had been guilted into helping cook for once. It wasn’t hard to guilt his brother into doing work, especially so if the person guilting him was the mother of Jorrvaskr. Or maybe he really had taken a shine to cooking. Neither would be bad. It was good to help the old woman out from time to time, and learning how to cook food was a necessary and valuable skill.
But.
If Farkas had picked up a new a interest, Vilkas wanted to know about it. No one could accuse him of being an uninvolved brother.
He ambled slowly to the bookshelf, taking his time replacing the book from where he had gotten it. He shuffled closer to the door. He held the guise of looking for another book just incase anyone (Farkas) came into the Mead Hall. Not that he was doing anything wrong, of course. Just looking for another book that he’s read cover to cover.
Now that he was closer, Vilkas could pick up the scent of something foul. He gagged, wondering what in the name of Shor Farkas could be doing in there. If Tilma had enlisted him then she would surely have taught him how to cook. If that stench was any indication however, then either Tilma had gone senile or Farkas was doing something on his own. He refused to call it cooking.
And if Farkas was trying something new by himself, there could be great cause for alarm.
The closer Vilkas moved to the kitchen the stronger the smell was. It reminded him of death, bile and rotted food all at once. If he wasn’t able to hear his brother’s heartbeat he would’ve thought him dead and feasted upon. He marveled at how his twin could stand to be enclosed in there with it. If it was bad from where he stood, how horrendous could it be in there?
Vilkas looked longingly towards the bookshelves to his left. It would be so nice to go back to them and actually read a book, to go down to his room where he couldn’t smell the rotting pits of Oblivion. To plant his face into the freshly washed linens that Tilma had given him yesterday until he forgot about this scent. So, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so nice.
But.
Vilkas had always been a curious person. It had gotten him into quite a few situations throughout his life. Some of them were good, like the time he had pestered Jergen with questions about Whiterun so much as a pup that the older man bought him every book he found on the city’s history. There was also the time when Vilkas would beg to hear the other companions’ stories of adventure every time one came back from a job, no matter how simple said job was. Eventually Kodlak had told him that he could make his own adventure and gave him first job. Even though it had been a simple run to Honningbrew Meadery, it had elated him.
A few were very good. Vilkas recalled one such instance when he had to travel to Markarth for a delivery. He had been outside the stables waiting for his client to show when a beautiful woman in exotic garments beckoned him. When he followed she had revealed herself to be a Forsworn. He hadn’t known what that was at the time, since he was a young man who had never been near Markarth before, so he had naturally asked about her people and culture. She had instead offered to show him.
And by Ysgramor, had she shown him.
However, most of these situations were not good. In fact, most of them ended rather poorly. Usually with a fight that ends him with and his opponent in jail or with his opponent on the ground. Much like Torvar or Athis after a brawl with Njada. Or like Torvar right now. Or like Torvar most of the time, now that he thought about it.
He hoped this wouldn’t be one of those situations.
“Fascinating.”
Vilkas snorted at his brother quietly before gagging once again. He had never heard Farkas say that before. Were it any other situation and he would have brought Aela to listen, just to prove he wasn’t hearing things. His brother sounded like one of the scholars in Cyrodiil; holier-than-thou tone of voice mixed with just the right amount of academic interest.
It only made him that much more curious.
Braving the smell like a true member of the Circle, he pushed open the wooden doors to the kitchen.
The scent burned his nostrils like he had just inhaled an entire bowl of fire salts. Bile did rise to his mouth this time, and were it not for the strong regimen of strengthening his willpower he would have thrown up his hearty breakfast. It was absolutely vile in here. Maybe there was a dead body within the kitchen after all.
But no, there was not a corpse making the rancid stench.
Farkas stood before the kitchen counter, various bottles and tubes strewn around him. Some bubbled with colorful contents while others fizzled and popped. Bowls with different salves and powder, bags with different leaves and berries, and a small pile of skeever tails lay behind the bottles. In front laid a bigger bowl, the contents a sick pink/green/gray color. A book lay opened in the center of them. Vilkas couldn’t see the title, but he didn’t need to.
“Farkas?” He asked, teeth grit. His brother stared at him wide-eyed. He looked like a rabbit trapped between two ice wolves. Neither of them had yet to move, locked in a silent yet intense stare-down. Farkas’s hands hovered over the bigger bowl in front of him with a spoon clasped firmly in his grip. It was covered in the same paste as the bowl.
“Uhh...” Farkas broke the stare and looked down at the book in front of him. He looked over at the spoon with a newfound interest, turning it over in his hand. Anything to avoid his brother’s angry piercing eyes. “What? Uh, what are...what are you uh....what? Hmm?”
“Farkas.”
Farkas glanced up hesitantly. His brother’s face was calm, too calm he was sure. His arms were held at his sides in fists. His eyes were still piercing as ever, like he would be able to tell if Farkas was lying. Which he usually could.
“I was just...” Farkas gestured helplessly to the objects in front of him, a sliver of desperation in his voice. “It’s not what it looks like!” He knew exactly what it looked like. It looked like he was dabbling in magic and alchemical arts. But not magic. He would never do magic. Not after the necromancers from his youth. He barely remembered anything from that time, but he remembered the magic. Vilkas remembered more than he, and his brother was slightly more unwary than him about it. But it was only a little bit of alchemy. A smidgen. It was for a good reason, and as soon as he was done getting what he needed he would never touch this stuff again.
“Oh?” Vilkas’s voice was just as stoic as his face. His brother took a step forward, hiding how much he wanted to take a step back. It truly was a revolting smell. “Then what it is? What are you doing that’s making all of Jorrvaskr smell like an old giant’s camp, then?”
“It does?” Farkas questioned, then sniffed the air. He didn’t smell anything weird. Maybe Vilkas was drunk. He tried to remember if Vilkas had any mead at lunch when he came in. He’d been in a bit of a rush to get here to avoid this conversation, so he hadn’t really been paying attention. He didn’t smell alcohol, though...
“It does. Now answer the question.”
‘Weren’t there two?’ Farkas wondered, but was smart enough not to say. He was pushing his luck already.
“I...” he sighed helplessly, placing the spoon into the bowl with a squish. He stalled for a few seconds by wiping his hands on his greaves. “I had...I had come back from helping Serverio and Nimriel.” Vilkas leaned against the wall of the kitchen, eyebrow cocked as he waited for Farkas to continue his explanation.
“And I uh, I had stopped by Carlotta’s stand to drop off some vegetables Severio owed her.” Farkas cleared his throat as he leaned against the counter. “She had asked if I could do her a favor, and I agreed.” He looked pleadingly at Vilkas. “She’s always been kind, and she raises Mila all on her own. I wanted to do something to help her.”
Vilkas felt his hard gaze crumble. Of course Farkas would jump on the opportunity to help someone in need, especially a single mother. He wouldn’t fault his brother for that. It was a very honorable thing to do. If the Companions were anything, it was honorable. It still didn’t answer his question, though.
“That’s okay,” he placated his twin. “Anyone of us would have done the same. But what does that have to do with this?” He gestured vaguely to the makeshift alchemy table beside them.
“Oh! Mm...” Farkas squinted his eyes ever so slightly, trying to recall exactly what had transpired. “She wanted me to pick up something from Arcadia. Mila was sick....and she wanted to know if I could get a stamina potion for her? Yeah. And so I went.”
Vilkas waited a moment, watching his brother expectantly. Farkas stared back at him with a blank expression. The leaner twin shook his head sharply at him, patience thinning.
‘By the Gods...’
“And then?” Vilkas snapped. “How did this happen?”
“Oh yeah,” Farkas looked away sheepishly. “I went to Arcadia’s to get it. Uh, she had went back to get it for me and uhh...she had asked why I needed it. Because she said that us Companions should..should have a good? maybe great amount of stamina from all the work we do. I don’t remember which.” He scratched his chin absently. “And I had told her that it wasn’t for me, because it was for Carlotta. Mila, really, I guess. Anyway, then she had asked why Mila needed it and I told her that the girl was sick.”
‘Since when did Arcadia get so nosy?’ Vilkas wondered to himself. He had only met her a few times before, but seemed nice enough. A bit weird, but nice.
“And then,” Farkas stated, standing up straight, “then she said that I looked sick. Ataxia, or maybe Asphlaxia? I don’t know. She also said it was a big problem in Cyrodiil, and that when she thought about it, all of us looked like we might have it.” Farkas’s eyes were wide with concern now. “And-and the prices of cure disease potions have almost tripled since the war began. She said it would probably be cheaper to just buy the ingredients to make some, but..” he looked down sadly. “I forgot to ask her how to make one, and I bought all this instead. ‘Cause I’m dumb.”
Vilkas’s heart clenched at the last words, mumbled but still heard thanks to his beast blood. He regretted his earlier anger at his brother.
“Hey,” he chastised softly, expression softening. “You’re not dumb, so don’t say that.” He walked over to stand by his brother, affectionately nudging him with his shoulder. “It’s not your fault Arcadia’s marketing technique is lying.”
Confusion replaced the forlorn look on Farkas’s face. “Lying?” He asked, looking up at his brother. “She lied?”
Vilkas nodded. “She tells everyone who will listen that they have Ataxia. I’d never heard of it until she began to speak of it.” He felt a small smile tug at his lips while fondness tugged at his heart. Farkas had surely bought enough supplies to keep Arcadia fed for a month simply because he thought they were sick. “And maybe she isn’t lying. Maybe she is just terrible at diagnosing people. Either way, it’s not your fault. You can’t help being soft.” He teased his twin lightly, hoping to get a reaction.
Farkas scowled at him, but the other man saw he was smiling. Quest complete.
“Come on,” Vilkas grumbled, clapping his brother’s steel clad shoulder. “We should probably get this cleaned up before Tilma comes to make dinner. She’ll have both our hides if we let her kitchen smell like a rotting skeever.”
Farkas nodded and began to help his twin, tossing the ingredients into the sacks he brought them in. He felt slightly indignant at being lied to, but he let it go. He wasn’t the type to hold grudges. He’d just be sure to come to Vilkas or Kodlak if he was worried about the Companions. They knew more than anyone. If something was amiss, they’d be the first two in the loop.
“Gods, Fark,” Vilkas exclaimed, wrinkling his nose as he picked up the colored paste bowl, “what’s in this? It would most definitely not cure any sickness. In fact, I’m fairly sure archers dip their arrows into this before a fight.”
Farkas rolled his eyes fondly at his brother’s dramatics. “Oh, nothing much.” He tossed the bag of elves’ ears into the sack. “Some troll fat, vampire dust, giant’s toe...and, uh, ectoplasm too, I think.”
The kitchen filled with Farkas’s loud laughter as Vilkas tossed the bowl away as though it burned him, almost drowning out the sounds of retching.