Chapter Text
Vébjorn stood from the table that he, Lydia, Jarl Balgruuf, and the Jarl’s cabinet had been seated at for the better part of the day. He stretched his back until he felt the stiffness in it finally shift and let out a grunt of satisfaction. From beside him, he heard a dull thud, and looked over to see Lydia with her head planted on the table
“Was it really that bad for you?”
She raised her head enough to send him a venomous glare, and were Vébjorn anyone else, he would have been stricken with fear. But he was not anyone else, so instead he clapped a hand down onto her broad shoulder and grinned.
“It was the very worst thing you have ever made me do as your housecarl,” she bluntly spoke, before swatting at his hand. “I am made for fighting, not politics.”
He snorted at her statement and began walking for the doors.
“And I was made for hunting, yet here we both are,” he tossed over his shoulder, and felt quite satisfied when he heard her laugh in response.
Lydia strode to his side, and they exited the room together. As they ambled down the hall, Vébjorn gazed out the windows at the darkened sky over Whiterun, lit with torches and hearths of homes. He took a moment to mourn the day he had missed and all he could have done, but as Dragonborn, this was a responsibility he could not avoid. He looked to his loyal housecarl and friend, and worried at his lip.
“I… know that this is not,” Vébjorn tried to begin, struggling for words. He never had the proficiency for reading that his grandmother did, but that had not mattered when his greatest responsibilities were providing his village with meat and hides and bones. Now, he cursed himself for it. Maybe if he put more effort forth then, he would know what to say now.
“This is not a good situation. And I appreciate you standing beside me, but I do not wish to make you disregard what you think or want.”
Lydia stopped short and grasped his shoulder, turning him to face her. Her lips were sternly pursed and her eyebrows were raised in an almost offended sort of disbelief.
“You can be softhearted, but don’t be foolish. Vébjorn, you are my friend and my brother-in-arms before you are my Thane. If I had objections, I would voice them. I stand beside you because this is where I want to be. Could any being make me do what I don’t wish to?” She spoke firmly, with the self-assurance he has come to expect from her.
“Not even Talos,” he confirmed, and his apparently unfounded guilt faded.
She chortled, before slinging her arm around his neck and dragging him down to muss his hair. He fought in name only for a moment, before using the opportunity to bring her into a hug.
“Thank you. For being my friend, and my housecarl, and my ally, and my sister-in-arms. I fear what my life could have been if I did not have you at my side,” he confessed in a hushed tone. He felt her soften and return his embrace twofold.
“Well, I suppose that’s just our lots in life. Us together until the cold, bitter end,” she chuckled into his shoulder, and they parted and continued walking.
“Besides, us joining the Imperials doesn’t mean that we can’t set fire to a couple of Thalmor holds. What would they do about it? Arrest the Dragonborn? Ha!”
“Lydia!”
“What? Nobody’s around to snitch! It’s fine,” she waved her hand in the air as if to dissipate his concerns. He tried to prevent the smile spreading across his face, but he failed that endeavor as he always did, and quickly hid it behind a hand. She narrowed her eyes at his display. “Oh, don’t act like we weren’t going to do that anyway, Vébjorn.”
“That doesn’t mean you can actually say it, Lydia! The whole point is secrecy!”
“Come off it, Vébjorn. As if any would be foolish enough to tattle on the Thane,” Lydia argued back with a feral smirk.
Finally exiting Dragonsreach and beginning their descent, his gaze was drawn towards Jorrvaskr. The chatter within was carried towards them on the cool night breeze, and he nudged Lydia. She rolled her eyes and nudged him back.
“Fine. I suppose we deserve some carousing after the day we’ve had,” she conceded, and they changed course to the mead hall.
“I thought you liked Jorrvaskr!” Vébjorn exclaimed in amusement.
“I love Jorrvaskr,” Lydia corrected. “I just know that the only reason we go as often as we do is so that Sofie will mention you more in her letters to that Dunmer in Windhelm.” Lydia ducked away from swat Vébjorn aimed at her.
“Lydia!” Vébjorn sputtered indignently. “That’s not– I– I have friends other than you! Who are Companions!”
“Dear Revyn,” Lydia started in a bad impression of Sofie’s voice as Vébjorn lunged unsuccessfully at her. “Today Vébjorn brought me back an amulet he found on one of his adventures and taught me how to make my own. He’s so brave and strong and considerate and handsome! He sooo amazing, you should marry him right away! Anyway Whiterun is okay too, I guess. With love, Sofie!” Lydia teased as she dodged out of Vébjorn’s reach to the steps of Jorrvaskr.
“Shut up! Shut up! That is completely untrue!” Vébjorn hissed. Lydia only cackled in his Imperial-red face as he joined her. Together, they pushed open the doors of the mead hall and entered into the revelry and warmth.
“Vébjorn! Lydia!” As always, Farkas spotted them first and trudged up the steps to greet them, a child perched on each shoulder. The girls began attempting to wriggle off their father’s shoulders till he finally set them down and let them run to their visitors. Vébjorn took note that Sofie was still small for a child her age and felt a familiar flare of concern, but he reminded himself that recovery took time, and it had only been barely over a month since she was rehomed to Farkas and Mirmir. Farkas had assured him this was normal when he expressed his concern, and though Vébjorn hadn’t known a time before Lucia was Farkas’s, he assumed the older Nord would know best.
Vébjorn knelt down to meet the girls at their heights, and he brought them both into a gentler form of his favorite bear hug while Lydia leaned over to ruffle the girls’ hair. Farkas soon reached them, and brought the four into an embrace.
“Oh, get your paws off me, you oaf!” Lydia yelled and made a show out of struggling, drawing giggles from the girls. Farkas only squeezed tighter with a bright, uninhibited laugh. When they broke apart, the girls gleefully dragged Lydia over to the hearth. Although Lydia didn’t dislike children, Vébjorn was still equal parts surprised and pleased at how the three had bonded. Despite Lydia’s teasing earlier, he was sure that she featured in Sofie’s letters as much if not more than he did.
Vébjorn turned his gaze to his other friend. “Is she still adjusting well?” He whispered to Farkas, who responded with a soft, if tired, look.
“You ask that every time you visit, Vébjorn. She’s doing just fine. She’s strong, all children are,” Farkas assured. “Try to worry less, stress wrinkles aren’t nearly as good a look as age wrinkles.”
Vébjorn rolled his eyes. “Oh, and I’m sure you would know.”
“I would and you know it,” Farkas asserted sagely. “My husband is pushing two hundred and fifty, and he’s still the only one I see when he’s in the room.”
“Oh, Farkas,” Vébjorn beamed. “That’s just beautiful.”
“Not to mention that we fuck every day. Sometimes more! One of the benefits of having so many babysitters.”
“Farkas! Gods above, don’t tell me these things! Ugh!” Vébjorn rubbed furiously at his ears as if he could make Farkas’s words fall out of his head. Farkas howled with laughter at Vébjorn’s embarrassment and led him down the the table, piling a plate high with food for the younger man. Vébjorn took it with a mild glare.
“Doesn’t matter how much you feed me, you’ll never be forgiven,” Vébjorn huffed at the Companion, who only responded with more gleeful peals of laughter.
Farkas poked at him and Vébjorn paused in devouring his roasted goat leg to look over to his friend, who grinned at him impishly.
“Speaking of Dunmer…”
Vébjorn flushed brighter than the tomato soup on the table and let out a long groan, hoping that if he drew it out long enough he would just die on the spot, and never have to speak again.
“Don’t be like that. My friend is in love, let me be happy for you, you oaf!” Farkas said, tenderly clapping a hand onto Vébjorn’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe that you and Lydia only seem to care about embarrassing me. Vorstag would never do this to me.”
“Sure,” Farkas chuffed. “As if. The only reason Vorstag isn’t invading your love life right now is because he’s been mush for his rich-as-anything husband in Solitude for the past decade.”
“Good for him on that one.”
“Cheers to that!”
The two raised their mugs and threw back their drinks in unison before laughing.
“Cheers indeed!” A playful voice cut in, and a reedy Dunmer leaned over Farkas’s shoulder to gently kiss the hinge of his jaw. Farkas visibly softened and turned to meet Mirmir fully, and Vébjorn shifted his attention back to his food to give the couple a bit of privacy. After a minute of soft murmurs, the Dunmer straightened to his full height and cheerfully clasped hands with Vébjorn in greeting before he loped over to the hearth. His daughters greeted him with far louder shrieks than Vébjorn or Lydia received, and he was sat down in front of the housecarl while his daughters relayed their days to him. Judging by the matching braids the girls now sported and the brush in Lydia’s hand, Vébjorn assumed that Mirmir would shortly match them as well. Both he and Farkas looked to each other and let out soft “aww”s at this, chuckling to each other, when a knock on the doors cut through the cheer.
Vébjorn looked to Farkas in confusion, which Farkas returned. Who knocked at Jorrvaskr?
“Enter,” Mirmir’s voice projected through the hall, suddenly authoritative in a way Vébjorn rarely heard. It was easy to forget Mirmir’s status and age sometimes, with the open and carefree way he carried himself. But Vébjorn similarly knew what it meant to be looked upon as a leader, and the masks one maintains for the sake of presentation.
The heavy door creaked as a small man poked his head in, nervous in the presence of numerous rowdy warriors.
“Hello, so sorry to bother you all so late. I was told a Vébjorn might be found here?”
Vébjorn promptly stood. “Yes, that’s me,” he confirmed as he walked to meet him.
The man looked relieved. "I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver - your hands only,” he stated, before rummaging around in his bag. "Let's see here..."
The courier finally pulled out the letter he was looking for. “Here we are. From a Revyn Sadri in Windhelm. Said it was urgent. Don’t know what it’s about, but he seemed fine if that’s any comfort.”
Despite the courier’s attempt, Vébjorn still felt a roiling mess of anxiety boil in his stomach at the word “urgent”. He quickly broke the letter’s seal and began reading, only slightly conscious of Mirmir leading the courier to the table for a meal.
Vébjorn of Clan Skybearer,
I hope you and Sofie are well. I’m disappointed that I can’t be writing under better circumstances. I need you to come to Windhelm as soon as you can. My sister Idesa came across a rumor of there being yet another orphan in Windhelm. Even more concerning, she told me that she heard the boy is trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood. I wasn’t aware they were even still active in Skyrim, but I’ve also never tried to have anyone assassinated, so what would I know? The boy’s name is Aretino. Idesa and I tried to find out where he was, and we ended up concluding that he is probably staying in a building we think may have been his family’s residence. We haven’t seen him, but the basket of food we leave is always empty when we collect it. There isn’t much more we can do, as I believe at this point you understand how Windhelm guards would react to my sister’s and my own involvement in this situation. Probably best for you to hurry. Travel safely, see you soon.
Revyn Sadri
Vébjorn hurried over to Lydia, still relaxing in her chair by the hearth the way she rarely gets to.
“Lydia?” Vébjorn called to her in a hushed tone.
Lydia raised her brow with a grunt of acknowledgement.
Vébjorn passed the letter to her, which she quickly skimmed. “We need to go to Windhelm, right now. You up for it?”
“Am I up for it?” Lydia mocked him. “Don’t even act like there’s a possibility I wouldn’t be. Let’s go sort this shit out.”