Work Text:
Falkreath is just as dreary as Athis had always claimed it was — the dark elf was no stranger to exaggeration, and Jack’s always taken his grand tales of grey weather and bouts of rain in stride, but there’s no other word for the weather as they trudge south through the woods to head to Falkreath: it’s miserable.
Falkreath isn’t even too far out from Whiterun, is the thing — they’d already passed through Riverwood, the little town with the lumbermill operated by the Stormcloak sympathisers, and though the civil war is still going strong — neither Ulfric Stormcloak, the man who claims to have learned the dragon’s language and killed the High Emperor in an attempt to usurp the throne, nor General Tullius, the military governor of the Imperial Army in Skyrim, have made a move yet.
It’s left every hold on edge, simmering with tension as people divide themselves between the opposing sides — the Stormcloaks, the ones who want all foreigners out of their lands, and the Imperials, who welcome strangers but ban the worship of the native god, Talos, under the Thalmor’s insistence.
It’s a whole mess that Jack tries to keep himself out of. The Companions have never concerned themselves much with the politics of the world — Jarl Baalgruuf, regent of Whiterun, is firm on his neutral stance, and thus the Companions haven’t seen fit to step in anywhere.
He’s secretly glad for it, if he has to admit it — Jack’s never been one for politics, and even though he doesn’t like the Stormcloaks’ approach of sneering at anyone who wasn’t born a Nord, native to the Skyrim lands — the Empire’s refusal to let people worship Talos in peace doesn’t seem right, either. The whole thing makes his head spin, and he’s content to stay out of it — but things are a lot less divided in Whiterun.
Ralof and Gerdur, the brother and sister who own the Riverwood mill, were proud Stormcloaks — and their insistence on it still rings in his ears. It’s not something he’s equipped to deal with, and he’d let Dylan pick up the pace without question, both of them only stopping to resupply at the Riverwood Trader before heading further south, onwards to Falkreath.
Closer to the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary.
He’d never admit it to Dylan, but he’s nervous — the Brotherhood goes against everything he’s been taught with the Companions, and he’s not sure about exactly what kind of person would take pride in sneaking through the shadows to end innocents’ lives. He’s expecting someone wiry and thin, maybe, with burning eyes and a sharp tongue to threaten them the second they appear, or perhaps the hulking figure of someone capable of striking down anyone in their way. It could be an alchemist, perhaps, someone adept enough at brewing poisons to slip some unnoticed into a tankard at an inn — or a gaunt, haunted face burdened by the weight of all those deaths on their shoulders.
What they find in Falkreath, ultimately, is none of those things.
They’ve made it just past Falkreath, past the cemetery that stretches out almost as far as the town itself does, the town’s silence haunting and oppressive on their heels, when Dylan pauses and holds up his hand, stopping dead in his tracks.
Jack catches himself just in time to sidestep him, his swords clanking dully against the side of Dylan’s armour as he moves to the side. Dylan tilts his head, eyes fixed on the trail just up ahead.
The road takes them westbound, onwards to where Jack knows the Roadside Ruins lie, but that’s not quite what Dylan is looking at, and when he breathes in deeply, taking in the world around them, he realises suddenly what’s wrong.
Skyrim is never quiet. He’s used to the mutterings and bustle of Whiterun city, Heimskr who never quite stops shouting his praise to Talos at the shrine in the Wind District, and the merchants at the marketplace who gossip and whisper about anything and everything that might happen. Here, in the wilderness, there’s none of the hushed voices and annoyed grumblings that cling to the Gray-Manes and the Battleborns and their ridiculous family feud as they complain to anyone who sets foot in Whiterun — but the birds never cease their singing, and the crunching of leaves underneath the hooves of the deer that roam the woods seems to follow them everywhere.
Bunnies scurry across the roads and falcons cry overhead, and the bugling of elk in the distance has been a near-constant companion throughout their travels — which makes the fact that the forest is suddenly deathly quiet around them all the more concerning.
Now that he’s noticed it, there’s no stopping the spike of trepidation that steadily crawls up his spine, pin-prick needles of discomfort making themselves known the longer the silence goes on. His own breathing feels deafening in the quiet.
“Well met, traveler,” a young voice suddenly pipes up, and Jack’s hand twitches minutely towards his swords when a girl suddenly appears onto the path. He hadn’t heard her come up, which is unusual, and there’s not a parent in sight. She’s young — she seems barely any older than he’d been when Vilkas had taken him from Katla’s Farm, and there’s a distinct wrongness about the sight of her on her own in the woods that sets alarms off in his head. “Spare a coin for a young girl?”
She seems harmless, head tilted with an angelic smile, though she doesn’t meet either of their eyes, and she doesn’t seem worried about the quietude in the slightest. He’s not sure if she’s noticed.
Dylan has, though, and he lets his arms rest in front of his chest, crossing his hands as he regards the girl with an unreadable look. “A young girl, you say?”
He’s… not as friendly as he’d been to Dorthe and Frodnar, the two children they’d met in Riverwood. He doesn’t seem all that at ease, either, and Jack swallows thickly as he moves to stand a little firmer next to him. Whatever is about to happen, he refuses to let Dylan bear the brunt of the fight.
The girl laughs, a high, tinkling sound, and she inches forward. Dylan makes a warning sound, low in the back of his throat, and finally, the girl raises her head, eyes glowing brightly in warning.
No, that’s not quite right— they’re just… glowing, Jack realises, and he bites back a curse when he realises what the eerie orange glow in her eyes means. She’s a vampire.
“How did you know?” the girl, the vampire asks airily, even as she stays where she is. She doesn’t get any closer, and Dylan doesn’t take a step back. Instead, he blows out a breath of air and relaxes, arms coming to rest at his side.
“I’m a friend of Astrid’s,” he says, and though the name doesn’t mean much to Jack, the girl seems surprised, if the incline of her eyebrows is any indication. “I’m only looking to speak. I’d appreciate it if you’d let us through, Babette.”
The girl’s face twitches at the sound of what is, apparently, her name, and then she quickly schools it back into something impassive. She considers them for a moment, and then rolls her eyes briefly. “Fine. You’re no fun. Besides, what is Astrid thinking, cosying up to the likes of you.”
She’s not subtle, in the way she glances over Jack and his armour with disdain, and he realises that even though he’s not wearing the Wolf armour that’s typical of the Companions, the armour that’s reserved only for the the Circle of highest-ranking Companions, his Skyforge steel swords are still enough to give him away.
Companions have no place amongst honourless assassins, he supposes, and in an uncharacteristic move, he decides to cross his arms, leaving his swords hanging at his sides, and glare right back at Babette. “I’m not what you think,” he says, even though he’s not sure what she’s thinking at all, barely aware of what he’s disagreeing with altogether. “We’re not looking for trouble.”
There’s a hint of a smile on Dylan’s face as he shifts slightly to look at Jack, and Jack staunchly refuses to back down. He’s not a Companion, and he’s not an honourless fighter, and none of that should matter here — not when they’re about to share a table with liars and murderers.
It earns him an appraising look from Babette, though, and even though it should feel a little ridiculous, coming from such a young girl, he’s not stupid enough to assume he could take her in a fight.
He probably could, but he’s got no idea how old she is, and he’s never been up against a vampire before. She might bite his head off before he’s even had the time to draw his sword, if Ria’s stories were to be believed.
Babette turns on her heel without a word, and waves them along with a dismissive gesture. Dylan shrugs, starting forward only to fall into a steady pace trailing after her, and Jack’s hot on his heels. Questions burn in the back of his throat, and he debates swallowing them for all of three seconds before he decides that they probably won’t ever see Babette again, and he might as well try.
“So,” he begins, aiming for casual and ending up just slightly left of nosy, “how old are you really?”
“I’m ten,” Babette says haughtily, and then her expression crumbles and something more mischievous overtakes her face, “but I’ve been ten for a little over three hundred years.”
It takes everything he has to keep walking, not to let his steps falter, but the disbelief must be visible on his face, because Dylan laughs. “You’ve been with the Brotherhood for roughly two hundred years, or so I’ve been told. Am I right?”
“Give or take,” Babette says, and suddenly veers right off the road and onto a track hidden by the shrubbery. “Long enough to know how to deal with newcomers.”
It’s a threat, even if it’s a thinly-veiled one, and Dylan lets it pass without a comment. He does, however, hold back a fir branch for Jack to pass through, and then lets it go just as he’s walking past. The branch smacks him firmly in the chest, and there’s a smug grin on Dylan’s face at Jack’s unimpressed look.
It distracts him from the strangely dark, bubbling pond that suddenly appears before them, and it’s not until they stop and he peers under the rocky alcove that he realises they’ve come to stop in front of a looming, dark door.
There’s a skull imprinted on it, a red hand emblazoned on the smooth white of it, and there’s nothing else it could be — it’s the entrance to the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary.
Babette eyes them both warily and crosses her arms, sending a pointed look towards Jack. “I can get Astrid for you—”
“No need,” Dylan says, and steps right up to the creepy black door. He leans in, resting his hand on the smooth rock of it, and nudges.
“What is the music of life?”
It’s a whisper, gravelly and ominous, and Jack’s got no idea where it came from. It almost sounds as though someone were speaking inside his head, and he steels himself against the nerves that crop up at the notion. He can’t show that he’s unsettled, not to Dylan and certainly not to Babette, and so he steps a little closer and watches as Dylan leans in, head tilted towards the door, and whispers back, “Silence, my brother.”
“Welcome home,” the whisper hisses, and the door creaks open. Babette seems faintly impressed, and there’s no other word than smug to describe the look Dylan throws her.
“Let’s go,” he says, and holds the door open for Jack. The idea of going in first seems… unappealing, to say the least, the notion of charging blindly into the den of assassins with a three hundred-year-old vampire at his back, but refusing and letting Dylan and Babette know that he’s wary also doesn’t sit well. He squares his shoulders and slips past Dylan, treading down oddly-curved steps into an unfamiliar domain, and briefly hopes he hasn’t made a terrible mistake.
If he dies here, none of the Companions will ever find his body — they’ll already be preparing the funeral for him, if they’d found the fake body that he’d left by Shimmermist Cave with Dylan yesterday, and no one would ever think to look for him in the sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood.
God, he hopes he hasn’t made a terrible mistake.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, there’s a blonde woman stood over a piece of parchment splayed out on a table. It’s a map of Skyrim, apparently, and a dagger has been put through one of the major cities. She’s wearing the telltale black-and-red shrouded armour of the Dark Brotherhood, and without looking, she calls out over her shoulder. “Good, you’re back. Nazir has another—”
She cuts herself off abruptly, hand flying for a dagger she procures seemingly from nowhere, and her entire face contorts dangerously. “You dare enter our halls, stranger?”
She must have not recognised his footsteps, Jack realises, and he’s already drawn one of his swords before he realises, years of training and reflexes kicking in. Before anything can escalate, though, footsteps sound out behind him, and then there’s a familiar presence at his back. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“Dylan.” If the woman is surprised, she doesn’t show it, though she does marginally loosen her grip on her dagger. “I wasn’t aware you did house calls, these days.”
“I don’t,” Dylan responds lightly, and then stands to rest next to Jack. “I’m here for a different reason, but we’ll get to that shortly. Astrid, this is Jack — he’s with me. Jack, this is Astrid — leader of the Dark Brotherhood.”
Jack lowers his weapon at that, remembering in time to sheathe the blade properly as he tries to figure out exactly what to say. Astrid seems… unassuming. Ignoring the armour, she looks normal — someone he’d never look twice at if he’d passed her on the streets. She doesn’t look dangerous, though her reflexes betrayed her, and the knowledge that she is the one coordinating assassination contracts throughout Skyrim doesn’t sit easily.
“Nice to meet you,” he says thickly, even though he hasn’t quite decided whether it is, and Astrid laughs heartily at him.
“I like him,” she says to Dylan, and then gestures to an open doorway on her right. “Come. You have something to discuss, I presume, or you wouldn’t have shown up — with backup, no less. Tell me what you need.”
“I will.” Dylan stares at Jack for a moment, eyes lingering slightly too long, and then inclines his head at Astrid. “While we speak, may I send him onwards into your Sanctuary? I get the feeling he’d like to speak with Arnbjorn.”
Astrid’s eyebrow raises, but she doesn’t decline. “I doubt Arnbjorn will want to speak with him, but sure — Babette, see him out. No further than the lab.”
“My pleasure,” Babette says, honey-sweet and silky, and before he knows it, he’s being nudged further into the den by an insistent, tiny vampire child. “Arnbjorn hates strangers. He doesn’t trust them. I’m sure you’ll find him… fascinating.”
Great. The childish urge to turn back, to tell Dylan he’d much, much rather sit and listen to whatever he’s discussing with Astrid than go and meet an assassin who, apparently, has no desire to speak with him whatsoever — it rears its ugly head, and he stamps it down viciously. He’s trained for years with the Companions, and he’s not stupid. If a fight breaks out, he’ll either hold his own and make his way out — or he’ll die honourably, taking out as many assassins with him as he can.
The aim is, of course, not to fight in the first place — but that’s neither here nor there.
Babette leads him down another short staircase, until they reach an open space with a little pond, an Argonian man who seems to be meditating, and a broad, grey-haired Nord who is pressing his sword into a grindstone as though he’s trying to cut the whole thing in half.
“Arnbjorn,” Babette sing-songs, “I have fresh meat for you.”
The Argonian does not respond, but the grey-haired man does. Thick brows pull down into a frown, and when he sets aside his sword, there’s a distinctly familiar energy to it. “What now?”
There’s a raspy growl to his voice, not unlike Kodlak and Farkas, and despite the fact that he’s miles away from home, there’s a sense of familiarity that seems… comforting. If the man hadn’t seemed to openly despise him, he might have even tried to introduce himself.
As it is, he hovers slightly awkwardly behind Babette and grimaces. “Friend of Astrid’s,” Babette says, “though I think you’ll be interested in his swords.”
His Skyforge steel swords. Jack resists the urge to clench his hands around the hilts, to protect them from being taken — he’s not sure what assassin etiquette is surrounding higher quality weapons, but he’s not going to let them take his weapons easily.
Arnbjorn makes no move to take them, though, only glances over them appraisingly and humming lowly. “You’re with the Companions, then.”
“Used to be, yeah.” His voice comes out a little strangled, the words unfamiliar on his tongue — the Companions will always be his family, so long as he has a place there, but he’s not with them — not anymore. Not since he faked his death and started travelling with someone who’s either the most brilliant mastermind he’s ever met, or a complete madman. The decision feels like forever ago.
“So did I,” Arnbjorn huffs, and Jack’s thoughts promptly come to a halt. “Let’s just say they found my methods… unsettling. The Dark Brotherhood, obviously, feels differently.”
Right. The Companions frown upon thoughtless murder, indeed, and it’s not hard to see why Arnbjorn wouldn’t fit with them — but if he’d been with the Companions, fought with them and trained with them the same way he himself had… it’s no wonder there was something familiar about him.
“Yeah,” he finds himself agreeing, “I think I get that.”
He doesn’t murder people — not like Arnbjorn, apparently, nor any of the Dark Brotherhood assassins, but fighting the way the Companions do has never come naturally to him. He’ll do whatever it takes to survive — has done whatever it takes to survive, and though there’s a Code to adhere to, that dictates how they should act and which jobs they take on… he knows, if it came down to it, he’d have no issue falling back on his lockpicking and pickpocketing and other dishonourable skills that kept him alive right up until the Companions took him in.
They’d frowned down on his sneaking, his thieving, and the lessons he’d had in swordfighting had made him bolder, brasher, more upfront — but he doesn’t think he’ll ever lose the rough edges that his life as an orphan left him with, and the Companions don’t understand that.
He doesn’t think they ever will.
Arnbjorn does, though, and the idea that an assassin might understand him better than his own family is something that stings, even if it’s not as much as he thinks it would have just a few days ago. Arnbjorn nods at him, gruffly understanding, and then hums again.
“You don’t have the teeth to kill,” he says, “not like us — but you don’t need them. All you need is conviction, and skill.”
There’s a second of silence, at that — what is he even supposed to say to that? Thank you? I do? I don’t need your advice? It takes him a moment to find the words, and when he finds them, they come out stumbling. “I’ll make it,” he says, and finds that he does believe it. “I’m doing the right thing.”
Arnbjorn grumbles something unintelligible — truly, is that what happens if you spend too long with the Companions? Kodlak, Vilkas and Farkas all seem to communicate mostly in growls and hums, and if that’s his future, Jack thinks he might be lucky to not spend the rest of his life with them — and then footsteps draw his attention away again, light-footed and quiet and coming his way entirely too fast for his liking.
He looks up just in time to see a dark-haired woman leap down another staircase — this place has too many stairs, and that’s saying something coming from someone who grew up in Whiterun with the Skyforge to look up to — and brush long, dark curls from her face. “Ooh,” she calls out, voice bright and warm, “what’s this? Babette, did you bring a friend?”
“No,” Babette says instantly, and Jack probably should feel slightly insulted at the speed with which she denied being his friend, but all he feels is relief. “He’s just visiting. One of Astrid’s friends.”
The woman comes closer, green eyes sparkling curiously as she leans in far too close into his space. “Interesting. I didn’t think Astrid had that many friends — kind of what happens when you kill them all, you know. So — what brings you here?”
“Wish I knew,” Jack grumbles, leaning slightly backwards to get the woman out of his space, “My friend’s the one doing business. I’m just backup.”
Wide, dark-rimmed eyes blink at him, and the woman takes another step to close the distance between them. “Backup, hmm? You’re a fighter, then.” She turns abruptly to Babette, ignoring Jack altogether, and laughs boisterously. “Can we keep him?”
“No,” Dylan says suddenly, and Jack will deny jumping at the sound until the day that he dies, but all three of them look up as Dylan appears at the top of the staircase, Astrid hot on his heels. “You can’t keep him — but I’d like to offer you a chance, all the same.”
The woman tilts her head, obviously intrigued, and Jack straightens the breastplate of his armour uncomfortably as he watches Dylan’s eyes dart between himself and the assassin.
“I see you’ve already met Jack,” Astrid says smoothly, her voice carefully even, “Good. Come speak with us. Both of you.”
As uninviting as she made the request seem, it’s better than staying here with Arnbjorn and the vampire, and Jack follows the woman whose name he hasn’t caught yet as they trudge back up the stairs towards where they first met Astrid.
“Lula,” Astrid says, and the dark-haired woman perks up. “This is Dylan Shrike. He’s looking for people, and he thinks you’d be a good representative for our organisation. I think he might be right.”
For the first time, the woman — Lula — hesitates, her enthusiasm seeming to wane a bit, and she looks back and forth between Dyland and Astrid in confusion. “Is this another contract?”
“No,” Astrid says, “and you don’t have to say yes. The world out there is changing — as it has, for the past centuries, but it’s changing faster and it’s changing now. He needs a team of people of… undisputable skill, and though you have a place with us, in our family… I can’t deny that he makes a compelling argument. You might be needed with them, too. The choice lies with you.”
Lula bites her lip, expression open and easily readable in a way Jack would never have expected from an assassin, of all people, and then her eyes meet his again. They crinkle at the corners, and she winks — and then whirls around to crowd Dylan. “Tell me more,” she says, “what’s the quest? What do you need?”
She doesn’t ask who they are, or how long they’ll be gone — none of the things Jack had worried about, initially — and Dylan laughs at her direct approach. “We’re finding some people to help, so that we’re prepared for anything that’s coming up — and once we have everyone, I’ll tell you more. The most important thing to know is that it’s to do with the return of the dragons, and I’ll need as much help as I can get. Jack’s already in — you’re the second one we’re asking, and after you there will be three more.”
“Elite,” Lula says appraisingly, “I like it. I can see why you went for him first.” She lingers near Jack when she says it, and he’s helpless to stop the blush from creeping up his cheeks. Astrid laughs at them both, a warm sound.
“So you’re going, yes? I’ll see our guests out while you pack your things.”
That, apparently, is all the information that Lula needs in order to make a life-changing decision — if her profession as a killer for hire hadn’t already convinced him, this would be the thing that’d fully sell him on the likelihood of Lula being completely and wholly crazy. She’s bouncy and bubbly as she disappears from the room, disappearing further into the sanctuary, and Jack only pays half a mind to the amicable conversation between Dylan and Astrid as they slowly head back up the staircase to the black door.
It’s only once they’re outside again, breathing in the fresh air and listening to the birds sing again, that he realises just how tense he’d been inside the sanctuary. They’d been friendly enough, but there was something unsettling about Babette, her vampiric nature off-putting not just to him, apparently, but also to the world around her. Now that she’s gone, the birds have come out again, and he can hear the faraway grunting of deer. The world feels natural again, and it’s more of a comfort than he’d realised until it’d disappeared.
Astrid and Dylan say goodbye, and Dylan stares at him with a half grin on his face as Jack tries to figure out what to do with his hands. “What do you think?” he asks, as though they’d gone to visit normal people, or tried a particularly creative new blend of tea. “I figured you’d like her.”
“She’s… a lot,” Jack says slowly, ignoring the way Dylan’s grin grows at the words. “I think it’ll take some getting used to.”
“I’m sure you’ll come around soon,” Dylan decides, and doesn’t say much more. Jack lets his back rest against the rough bark of a tree as he lets the words simmer in the air between them, and waits for Lula to show up.
Lula’s full name is, apparently, Lula May, and she’s got almost as much energy as Jack himself. The first mile of their travel had been slightly awkward, mostly so because Jack hadn’t known what to say to her, and Dylan himself isn’t the most talkative person.
Is he supposed to welcome her to the group? Or introduce himself again? It’s all a little vague, and odd, and not for the first time he’d wondered whether he’s made the right decision — right up until Lula’d gasped, loudly, and yanked one of his swords right from his belt.
“This is Skyforge steel!” she’d said, and Jack had had half a mind to try and wrestle the sword back from her, but the awe in her voice had made something stop, and he’d grinned back at her instead.
“Made by Eorlund Gray-Mane himself,” he’d boasted, and drawn out his other sword to show. He hadn’t been prepared for the first strike she’d thrown his way, hurriedly parrying the hit and dodging the second, but he’d been ready for the third, and within seconds they were dancing around, weaving and leaping, a whirlwind of steel and blows.
Dylan had called out, exasperatedly asking if they could at least wait until they’d at passed Helgen, minimum, given that it’d be nearly a two days of traveling to reach Riften. Neither of them had responded, though, and Jack had been delighted to discover that Lula was quicker where he was stronger, and that she dodged where he would have blocked, and that she never passed up on an opportunity to strike whenever he left an opening but wouldn’t see his feint coming in time to dodge his following blow, either.
Sparring with Lula was everything that sparring with the Companions never was, and it’d been both exhilarating and nerve-wracking.
Dylan’d eventually broken them apart, telling them that there’d be plenty of time to spar later, but that he’d move on without them if they didn’t follow along. Lula’d laughed at him, brightly and boldly, and some of the nervous energy that’d been howling behind his ribcage suddenly abated.
Lula fits. It’s a crazy thing to say, given that they’re now a group of three instead of two, but it’s true. He likes her, loathe as he is to admit that Dylan was right, but Lula is sneaky and fast where the Companions are lawful and strong, and she cheats during the I spy games they play, and somewhere along the road he’d realised he’d been missing his pouch of coins, and his potion of minor healing, and the iron dagger he used to carry in his boot.
It wasn’t until she’d managed to strip him of his belt, of all things, that he’d decided to get her back — and every time she dangled something of his in front of him — his dagger, his coin, his spare gloves he’d hold up something of hers, instead.
The first time he’d brandished the silver ring he’d fished from her left pocket, her eyes had gone round and delighted, and she’d nearly jumped on his shoulders in her enthusiasm that he’d managed to surprise her. The second time it’d been his own dagger, stolen back before she could brag about it, and the third time he’d managed to pilfer her locket right from around her neck by pretending to remove a twig from her hair.
It’s the most fun he’s had in years — even though Dylan sighs exhaustedly whenever they get loud, bickering and shoving each other as they trudge along the road further east, past Helgen and past the foot of the Throat of the World — the mountain that houses High Hrothgar, and the old Greybeards that live atop it.
Dylan tells them about the Greybeards, when he catches him staring up at the sky, the mountains high up above — the old, wizened men who have learned the Way of the Voice, to shout the way the dragons used to. They’re the ones who had called for the Dragonborn, the supposed hero who is destined to slay dragons and absorb their souls — Lula had called it all folktales and fables, but there’s a careful reverence in Dylan’s voice that hints at… something. There’s more to the story, Jack’s sure, but until Dylan tells him, there’s nothing he can do but to keep trailing after him and try to defend his meager possessions from Lula’s straying fingers.
It’s funny — she’s everything he’s been taught to despise, at the Companions, and yet there’s an ease that comes with interacting with her that he hasn’t felt in years — not since he’d been sent to Honorhall Orphanage, briefly, with the gruesome old lady who’d ran it as though it was her sole mission in life to make them all as miserable as they could be.
He’d pickpocketed from the people at the marketplace, pilfering apples and sweetrolls where he could to share with the other kids in Honorhall and dodging the eyes of the guards. He’d heard of the Thieves’ Guild that lived under the city, seen the thieves dart in and out of the city, but he’d never found where in the city exactly they were hiding.
Perhaps, if he hadn’t run away, he might have ended up with them instead — he remembers a red-haired thief, Brynjolf, instructing him in an accented voice how best to tilt his wrist in order to be quicker in and out of someone’s pocket. He’s not sure why the man had helped him, back then — but his advice had been valuable, and he’d sneaked more gold out of unsuspecting pockets than ever before.
He’d only seen Brynjolf a handful of times before life at the orphanage became unbearable — his parents had sent him there after they’d been called away to fight in the Legion, and with a name like Grelod the Kind, they hadn’t thought to check twice just where he’d end up, who’d be the one to care for him.
Grelod had been anything but kind, though — the headmistress of the orphanage had spat vitriol day in and out, and after the fourth time that she’d locked him in the cupboard and “forgotten” to let him out, he’d spent the rest of the day stealing as much coin as he could from the marketplace and headed out the keep, offering the carriage driver all his coin to take him as far away as he could.
He’d ended up near Solitude, on Katla’s Farm, and that’s where he’d stayed for the next six years up until he’d joined the companions. In between his duties of caring for the animals and the crops, he’d taken as much as he could from unsuspecting travellers’ pockets — many people left supplies and coin in the saddlebags of the horses he had to care for, and it was only too easy to take a little here and there.
Other times he’d gotten close and picked from pockets and satchels, knapsacks and cloaks. He’d only gotten caught a handful of times, and it’d only made him more careful. In Whiterun, though, he’d never even attempted it. The Companions would be furious if they found out — Vilkas adhered to the law as though he’d crumble into dust if he didn’t, and he’d never dared risk his stay by doing anything that they’d frown upon.
To have Lula here with him, sneaking supplies back and forth as though it’s nothing, employing all the sneaky tactics of fighting dirty that the Companions wouldn’t dare to speak of — it feels a little bit like coming home.
Lula chatters on and on — about the alchemy recipes she’s memorised from Babette, even though she’s terrible at crafting potions herself, and about Astrid’s terrible horse — the freakiest horse Lula’s ever seen, apparently — and about how she ended up with the Brotherhood.
Her father had been an assassin too, apparently — had one day knifed her mother in the neck as though it was nothing, as though it’d been nothing but a contract — and Lula’d reached out to the Brotherhood herself in response. Her father had never been a good man — he’d been loud, and drunk, and even though he’d never hit Lula, the stories reminded him a little bit too much of how his own father had been before he’d gone to join the Legion and died on the field — and though the Brotherhood had initially refused to eliminate one of their own, one day her father had died mysteriously in his sleep and an assassin had come to collect Lula, offering her the chance to join their ranks and family.
She’s been a member of the Brotherhood for over a decade, and despite the gruesome nature of her work, she tells him of the difference between frostbite venom and nightshade extract symptoms, and how the curve of an Elven dagger results in a different type of wound than the brusque cuts of a Dwarven dagger.
It’s practical knowledge he’d never thought he’d need — and likely still won’t, if he’s being honest — but it’s fascinating, and refreshing, to hear her discuss taboo subjects as though there’s nothing odd about them.
Lula is a hurricane of energy and passion, a wealth of information on all the things he’d never wondered about, and talking with her is endlessly entertaining. Dylan joins in, once in a while — grumbling about the veracity of Lula’s claims whenever she butchers one of the folktales, or arguing why elixirs are not always better than draughts, and conversation flows easily between the three of them as they continue east, along the Treva River for a while as they ease into the Rift.
It feels— comfortable. It feels like he’s known her for half his life, even though it’s only been less than a day since he met her, and two days since he’s met Dylan. Lula’s determined to make herself comfortable with them, and it means that he’s helpless to do anything but the same, Dylan seemingly unflappable no matter the circumstance.
It’s strange, and unfamiliar, and it shouldn’t work as well as it does — but it works, and it works well, and it feels like no time whatsoever before the walls of the city of Riften loom in the distance, just as unwelcoming and cold as they’d been all those years ago when his parents had dropped him off at Honorhall. He wonders if they’d ever even been made aware of the fact that he’d run off, or if they’d already been dead by then without anyone bothering to tell him.
Dwelling doesn’t change anything, nor does it help anything — and Jack swallows thickly, squaring his shoulders and shooting Lula a faint smile when she checks over her shoulder to see why he’d trailed off in the middle of his sentence.
He’s not particularly excited to return to Riften, but they’re already here, time flying by amidst their animated rambling and grand tales of adventures, and the cobblestones feel steady underneath his boots.
It’ll be fine. They’re here to collect their thief, and then they’ll be on their way to Winterhold, the Mages’ College that rests all the way northeast in the land where the snow never melts, and until then, he’s determined to enjoy the sun as much as he can.
Dylan steps up to the guard waiting by Riften’s gates, and Lula stands at his back — and despite it all, Jack grins.