Chapter Text
The Nords were a hardy race. They were considered little more than uncouth barbarians by many of the elvin races of Skyrim: the Bosmer, or wood elf; the Altmer, or high elf; and the Dunmer, dark elf. For Lyara, however, they held a deep fascination, particularly the one sat in front of her right now.
Their appearance was startlingly different to what she had grown up with in Valenwood. Bosmer men were generally shorter than the women, and they had slight agile frames; nothing like the bulging brute strength that was often evident in Nords. Farkas was large, even by Nord standards. Unusually for a Bosmer, Lyara was taller than most Imperial, Redguard or Breton women. She was almost as tall as some Nord females, but Farkas still dwarfed her. It was often the cause of ridicule from other members of her village.
Another fascinating difference between the people of her birth and Nords was body hair. Apart from the hair on their head and faint arched brows, Bosmer, as a race, were completely void of body hair. It enthralled her that despite Farkas regularly running a blade across his chin, there was always stubble darkening his strong jaw, as thick and as jet black as the hair on his head. Gentle eyes were hidden from her view by thick dark brows and long lashes, but she knew them as well as she knew her own. They were a clear blue, the colour of ice water.
There was more hair visible on his forearms, which captured her attention. The wood elf was mesmerised as he fiddled with some kindling, and she stared at the muscles rippling beneath.
*
Farkas stared unblinkingly into the centre of the small fire he had lit so they could cook the rabbit Lyara had shot for supper. The flames flickered and sputtered in the dusk breeze. The two of them had set up a small camp in a dip behind a large outcrop of rock on the plains. The intense orange light of the sun was fading as it quickly disappeared behind the horizon, and twinkling stars were starting to appear in the darkening sky.
Deep in thought, he poked at the fire with a stick causing a tiny flurry of bright embers to float off into the night. His mind replayed scenes of their battle within the bandit’s refuge.
Their mission had been successful, and they had retrieved the piece of Wuuthrad’s axe as instructed. As was his habit, replaying the fights in his head gave Farkas an opportunity to try and learn from any mistakes he had made, and consider ways he could have done things differently.
His mind strayed back to when him and the new recruit had been surrounded by four Silver Hand bandits. He had felt quite comfortable with Lyara at his side when they entered the refuge, confident that she would not be a liability as she had already proven her abilities in previous jobs she had done for the Companions. His concern at the time had been to dispatch the bandits as quickly as possible, as he was aware that Lyara’s true strength as a warrior lay with her skills as an archer. Never had he seen someone as adept as Lyara with a bow. She even rivalled his old friend and shield-sister, Aela.
As he fought two opponents, he had seen from the periphery of his vision that Lyara hung her bow quickly over the quiver on her back as soon as they were surrounded. She released a catch to free a small but mean looking axe that hung from her belt. She moved with an otherworldly grace, and despite being in full armour, nimbly avoided the blows of her attackers.
When she had first appeared in Whiterun a week earlier asking to join the Companions, he had been mildly curious why this unusual wood elf was interested. His elder twin brother, Vilkas, seemed to take an instant dislike to the woman. Farkas admired her spirit, and was amused by the way she had stood up to his brother. Following a few simple tasks, the de facto leader of the Companions, Kodlak, had agreed to let her join, but he had asked Farkas, an experienced Companion, to escort her on one more job, to prove that she was honourable, brave and trustworthy.
*
Lyara and Farkas hadn’t spoken much on the journey out to the bandit's refuge, but with a bond formed in battle, they were now much more relaxed in each other’s company as they sat around the small camp fire. As Lyara watched the reflection of the flames dance in his eyes, she recalled how embarrassed she had been when Kodlak had insisted it was Farkas that would accompany her.
She had felt an instant attraction to the huge Nord when she first met him and Aela fighting a giant outside the gates of the city of Whiterun. She should have been relishing this opportunity to spend time with the warrior, but she was still eager to prove herself to the Companions, and feared she would embarrass herself.
There had only been one small mistake on her part. In her naiveté, she had stupidly managed to trap herself in a cage by pulling a lever. The embarrassment had been short lived and quickly turned to fear for her shield-brother's safety as half a dozen Silver Hand bandits, no doubt attracted by the sound of the falling cage door, had surrounded him.
‘Which one is this?’ one of the bandits asked, as they closed in around him.
‘It doesn't matter. He wears that armour, so he dies!’
She futilely rattled the cage bars, desperate to come to the aid of her shield-brother but her bow was the other side of the bars. She would not be able to face the Companions again if Farkas had died because of her stupidity. She had no doubt in his skill, and knew he would put up a good fight, but he was greatly outnumbered. Her anguish turned to confusion when his first move was to shed his steel breastplate.
This also momentarily confused his aggressors, and they looked at their leader wondering what to do. Their attention was brought back to their prey when, with the horrific accompaniment of popping joints and rending muscles, he quickly transformed into a huge werewolf.
The dark beast towered over them; all muscle, teeth, fur and raw aggression. Vicious claws glinted in the torchlight at the end of long muscular arms that quickly eviscerated the bandits. His enemies dispatched, the massive lupine head turned to her. Lyara saw recognition in those bestial ice-blue eyes before the creature loped off round a corner down a nearby corridor.
Lyara's heart thundered in her chest. Confused and unsure what to do, she paced her cage. Relief left her body in an audible whoosh when the door trapping her was lifted. From around the corner, with a hangdog expression, a very naked Farkas came striding into view.
Without a word, he stepped through the gore of the eviscerated bandits and reached into his pack where he fished out a spare breechcloth and vest. His previous underclothes were now nothing more than shreds having been destroyed during the transformation.
‘Hope I didn’t scare you,’ he said with a wolfish grin as he dressed.
Lyara's eyes were momentarily held by the sight of his well-developed chest, and she found herself staring at the generous scattering of dark hair that spread across his pectorals and down between the deep ridges of his abdomen. Lyara blushed at her behaviour and she quickly turned away to give him some privacy.
‘No,’ she answered, when it finally registered that he was talking to her. His beast form had not scared her. She had been more terrified that he had been about to be run through by a bunch of miserable Silver Hand, but she was not going to tell him that. So he was a werewolf then? she thought. And probably not the only one. It explained why the Silver Hand all carried silver-coated weapons.
‘Are all the Companions werewolves?’ she had asked, curiously.
‘No, just a small trusted circle,’ he replied, as he strapped on the earlier discarded armour.
She thought about his answer for a second. ‘Could I become a werewolf?’
Farkas looked at her in surprise, but chuckled. ‘Keep your eyes on the prey, sister, not on the horizon.’
‘Very wise words, brother,’ she said, with a sheepish grin picking up his heavy sword from where it had dropped. ‘You know, you are not nearly as dumb as you look.’
With a smile, she threw him his weapon which he caught with one large hand, and she made her way past him to the corridor.
‘Most people think I am dumb,’ he said. ‘Those people get my fist, but you ... I like.’
*
She smiled to herself a little, at the recollection of his earlier words. Broke from her reverie by a loud crackle of burning wood, she frowned when she noticed that she had over cooked their supper. Cooking had never really been her strong point.
She stopped turning the rabbit on its spit and offered the end with the cremated animal towards Farkas, saying it looked done. He tore away half, his fingers seemingly unaffected by the heat, and then motioned that Lyara should have the remainder. When she protested saying she was not hungry, he told her that she had to eat something to keep her strength up.
*
Farkas was amused by her zeal, and admired her fervent enthusiasm to get on with the next challenge, but she had to learn to take care of herself too. She had to learn to rest and eat when the opportunity presented itself. In this life, you never knew when and where the next fight was. He nodded to himself. She would make an excellent Companion, and he would be telling Kodlak so as soon as he got the opportunity. He watched her hungrily attack the rabbit, and took the chance to observe her unnoticed while she ate.
She was uncharacteristically tall for a Bosmer, and while not willowy, was certainly more slender than stocky Nord women. She carried herself with grace and confidence, and was able to move in almost silence, even when in full armour. Her skin was pale, much paler than most elves he had ever met, who generally had a swarthy skin. She had thin brows that arched above large almond shaped eyes. Her high cheek bones could have looked austere, but they were softened by her full lips. Long dark hair hung to her shoulders, with the top section fastened back from her face in a small braid. A very Nordic style he mused. With her helm on, she could pass for a human, even a Nord. However, her red irises and pointed ears gave away her true elfin ancestry. Farkas had to admit however, she was easy on the eyes.
The temperature had dropped, and he noticed Lyara huddled tightly into her cape as they rode back to Whiterun. Skyrim was the most northern province of the continent of Tamriel, and although it was autumn, the cold wind already whispered promises of winter.
Farkas steered his horse to ride close alongside hers, so that they could talk. He wanted to know about the magic she had performed as they fought in the rebel’s retreat. He wasn’t even sure it had been her at first, until he had seen their enemies scattered and buffeted by the force of her voice. He knew that most elves had some kind of latent magic, even those not trained in the magical arts. She had healed a deep cut to his arm not an hour ago, and had blasted flames from her hand when cornered. But what she had done in there—that was a new magic unlike any he had ever seen.
‘Thanks for healing my arm back there.’
‘You’re welcome. Maybe you could keep the fact I managed to get myself locked in a trap just between us, we can call it even?’ she laughed sheepishly.
Farkas chuckled, and nodded his agreement. ‘What was that other magic you did? I have known a few magic wielders but none had an ability like that.’
He watched as Lyara pulled the cloak tighter around her to buy herself a few more seconds as she seemed to struggle how to respond to his question. ‘I think it might help if I start at the beginning, and explain the circumstances surrounding my arrival in Skyrim.’
*
Lyara stirred from unconsciousness, and found herself bound and sat in an Imperial wagon with little memory of how she had gotten there. Several others were sat in a similar state, including a self-confessed horse thief who was complaining loudly that he shouldn’t be there, that it was the Stormcloaks the Empire wanted, not him. His protestations fell on the deaf ears of their captors as the rickety wagon pulled into a small town.
‘Where are we?’ she asked her fellow prisoners.
‘Helgen,’ answered a handsome blond Nord sat to her left. She stared at the fortified town with mountains on one side, and forest the other. There was a soldier watching the approaching cart from the path ahead. This was no ordinary soldier though. She could tell by the ornate armour, his neatly cropped grey hair and his bearing that he was a leader of some kind. He stood straight, despite his advanced years, and watched them with shrewd eyes
She heard a soldier exiting the fort shout over. ‘General Tullius. The headsman is waiting.’
‘Let's get this over with,’ the General replied and he beckoned his men towards the cart.
She was pulled roughly from the back of the cart, and a guard started calling out names looking for Stormcloak rebels. When asked by a Captain for her name he found it was not on the list, but despite this, the Captain insisted that she should be executed anyway.
The horse thief's panic got the better of him, and Lyara watched impassively as he suddenly ran back towards the gate, his hands still tied, screaming they would not kill him. Before he reached the walls, an arrow sank deep into the centre of his back, and he collapsed, silent and forgotten. The prisoner next to her was the large blond Nord who had spoken to her earlier. He told the guard his name was Ralof.
The next prisoner seemed to be familiar to the soldiers. He named himself as Ulfric Stormcloak. She heard someone refer to him as the Jarl of Windhelm. Why would they be executing a Jarl? she wondered.
The puffed up Captain began to lecture Ulfric, as the proud Nord ignored him. He was accused of being the leader of the rebel Stormcloaks, the prisoners that had been held with her. The Captain’s belittling words halted when the air shook with an eerie cry that echoed off the mountain walls surrounding the small town. The blood drained from the faces of those around her. No one knew what it was, not even Lyara, but she instinctively knew they were right to be frightened.
Eager for this gory business to be over with, the Captain grabbed a prisoner and led him to the executioner's block. Lyara grimaced as the huge headsman cleaved his head off in one clean strike of his huge halberd. The next name called was hers. Lyara briefly considered running, but knew she would suffer the same fate as the horse thief. Better to die with some dignity than with an arrow in the back, she thought as she was pushed to her knees.
She felt the cold of the stone beneath the warm wet blood still covering the block from the previous prisoner. The grotesque headsmen lifted his enormous axe with arms the size of tree trunks. Just as he was about to bring it down on her neck, another roar ripped through the still morning air. With the flap of huge wings, a colossal beast landed atop a nearby building. A dragon.
The execution stopped, and the guards ran around in chaos. Lyara looked up, and for a moment felt the baleful stare of the great beast directly upon her. Its leathery wings were draped over the top of the building, tipped with steel-sharp claws. It opened its maw and a searing jet of flame engulfed the square, causing soldiers and prisoners alike to scatter. She rolled out of the way with a fraction of a second to spare. Even though her hands were tied, she managed to get to her feet and immediately started running. When she looked up, the dragon launched itself with a few strokes of its mighty wings, and swooped low over the buildings leaving a trail of fiery destruction in its wake.
Lyara took shelter in a nearby tower. Unsure where to go, she foolishly ran upstairs after a few of the other prisoners. They were half way up the staircase when the stone wall crumbled inwards, large chunks of rock crushing the few prisoners at the front. A huge reptilian head pushed its way through the gap, and cold eyes seemed to be searching. When it saw her, it filled the stairwell with its flame before flying off once more. Lyara was slightly burned, and her clothes were blackened with soot, but other than that, she was surprisingly alive.
Her way ahead was blocked by fallen rocks, and below her the staircase had collapsed, the tower floor was littered with burning debris. The other surviving prisoner, Ralof, told her to jump through the hole in the wall onto the roof of the inn below. Seeing this as her only option, she jumped.
She crashed through the damaged roof below and landed with a thud into a bedroom. She sprinted down the stairs after the blond Nord. The two of them dashed across the open courtyard, and Lyara could see that the dragon had already done a massive amount of damage in just a short time.
‘Stay close to the wall,’ her companion shouted as the beast's shadow crossed their path. It landed above them and tried to snap its mighty jaws at her, but they ducked between the town wall and a building.
Is this thing following me? she wondered. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed to be targeting her. She ran to keep up with Ralof, who led her towards Helgen Keep. Once inside the fortified building her companion turned towards her.
‘Let me remove those binding,’ the rebel offered.
She turned her back to him and he untied her hands. ‘Where now?’ she asked as she rubbed her wrists.
Her companion was knelt next to a body. A Stormcloak she guessed by the armour. ‘I will see you in Sovengarde, old friend,’ he murmured quietly.
He stood and looked at her. ‘You may as well take his armour. He has no need of it now.’ Lyara had no armour as the Imperials had taken it, so she quickly removed the battered armour from the corpse and fastened it over the singed woolen shift and leggings she was wearing. She then followed Ralof as he led her down some stairs into a basement.
He walked through a large room used to store barrels of food. Lyara realised how hungry she was, but turned her nose up at the slightly overripe apples.
Ralof rattled a door, muttering about needing a key. His curses were stifled when they heard someone approaching. They crouched either side of the door just before two Imperial soldiers walked through. Lyara grasped the axe firmly she had lifted off the Stormcloak corpse earlier and attacked the nearest soldier, while Ralof took on the other.
Their enemies quickly dispatched, Lyara rifled through the pouch on the belt of the soldier she had killed. She found a key which she threw towards Ralof. He tried it in the door, and smiled in relief when it opened.
They jogged through a series of tunnels that became more and more cave-like as they travelled further under the mountains. When they finally emerged into daylight, there was no sign of the dragon anywhere. Ralof said that it was probably better to go their separate ways. He wanted to go seek his leader, Ulfric, but he pointed her towards a small village a few miles ahead called Riverwood.
It's been an interesting first day in Skyrim, thought Lyara as she jogged towards the village.