Tail of the Dragonborn

by HopeStoryteller

Summary:

“...this one doesn’t talk- I don’t talk like other Khajiit because I’m not- I don’t… I don’t want to be like other Khajiit,” Ja’kir chokes out, and damn is it a million times harder the second time. He takes a shaky breath, and slowly lets it out. “That’s… that’s it. Sorry.”

Aela doesn’t speak for a while, and that’s fine, because Ja’kir wouldn’t have had the courage to respond anyway. He tries not to panic, tries not to think of all the terrible ways she could react to this alone - and she doesn’t even know the half of what he’s really keeping hidden. Somehow, Ja’kir gets the feeling that he’s not supposed to be keeping a lot hidden from his shield-siblings… who is he kidding, he’s been doing that the entire time.

---

Ja'kir is a Khajiit with a rather tragic past that he's trying desperately to move past. Then, he gets caught in an ambush while crossing into Skyrim perfectly legally, thank you very much, and through a particularly odd turn of events, he winds up as a Companion of Jorrvaskr, the Dragonborn, and... a werewolf.

He's still not sure how that last one works.

Chapter 1: That Just Happened

“Hey, look, the cat’s awake,” someone says.

Ja’kir opens his eyes and attempts to stretch, then freezes. His hands are bound. His hands are bound. Why are his hands bound? He swallows nervously, manages to make it into a sort of sitting position, and only then focuses on the guy who spoke: a tall, blond Nord wearing some sort of blue tunic. There’s another Nord sitting on the back wearing the same outfit, but he’s gagged. Then there’s the other guy, who looks about as out of place as Ja’kir feels.

“Hey, I won’t hurt you,” the first Nord says, and manages what is probably supposed to be a smile. It looks more like a grimace, but Ja’kir respects him for trying. “Name’s Ralof. You?” Ja’kir’s throat feels dry. He swallows again.

“Ja’kir,” he says quietly, testing his bonds. They’re tight, too tight to wriggle free easily, or at all. “What… what happened?” The guy who’s not Ralof and not gagged glares at Ralof, and Ja’kir mentally curses himself for not waking up sooner.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I got caught in the middle of a battle between the Empire and Stormcloaks,” the guy mutters. “Probably the same happened to you, but unlike you, I don’t deserve whatever’s coming.” Ja’kir’s tail twitches uncomfortably.

“Ja’kir isn’t- I’m not a thief,” Ja’kir insists. His face feels like it’s on fire. He hopes fervently that none of them noticed his slip-up. Good news, he thinks he can remember what happened now. “This… is better than where J- where I came from.”

He remembers weapons, silver weapons, wielded by the Imperials who controlled everything he was and would be. He remembers using the one weapon that wasn’t silver to escape: a bow. A simple bow, ornately carved, with silver arrows.

He never wants to touch a bow again.

“Doubt it’s better than dying,” Ralof mutters, glancing over at the gagged guy in the back. “It was an honor to fight beside you, Jarl Ulfric.” The gagged guy nods, once, and looks away. Meanwhile, the third guy looks just as shocked as Ja’kir is, and he’s doing a much worse job of hiding it.

“That’s Ulfric Stormcloak?” He exclaims. Now, terror fills his gaze. “Oh no no no no-”

“Yes,” Ralof says simply, and leans back against the wood of the wagon. It hits a bump suddenly, and the gagged Nord - Ulfric Stormcloak - nearly falls out the back. “You really think they’re going to just send us on our merry way with a pat on the head and some spare septims to cover our traveling expenses? I don’t think so.”

Ja’kir decides he likes this Nord.

“Anyway,” Ralof continues grimly, “looks like we’re almost here.” The other guy looks like he's about to shit his pants at this point. Ja’kir can’t say he blames him.

“Where's here?” The other guy asks after a moment.

“Place is called Helgen. Used to be sweet on a girl from here.” He closes his eyes, and sighs. “What are the odds that death comes so close to home?”

The other guy opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. They ride into town in silence. Ja’kir sees a boy argue with his father about watching the prisoners come in, and shrinks down in his seat. Suddenly, the wagon stops.

“End of the line,” Ralof mutters, right before an important-looking soldier yells for them to get out. He stands. “It was nice knowing you all.” Ja’kir follows him. He glances back, and sees an Imperial shove Ulfric Stormcloak out roughly… wait. Where did-

“I'm not a rebel!” The other guy screams as he breaks for it. “You won’t kill me!” Ja’kir hopes he escapes, but he's not particularly surprised when several arrows sprout from his back and he falls. He might have actually made it if he’d stuck to sneaking, Ja’kir thinks, and winces.

“Anyone else want to run for it?” The captain asks. No one moves. Ja’kir shrinks away from her. He’s glad he’s in the back, and somewhat hidden. “Good choice. Step forward when we call your name.” She nods to the soldier standing next to her, and he consults a list.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” the soldier calls. Someone shoves the gagged Nord forward. Ja’kir doesn’t listen to what they call him, although he figures it probably isn't anything nice. He gulps, and takes a deep breath, then another.

Ja’kir would like to think there’s a way out of this, but unless some sort of miracle happens, there isn’t one. He hoped he could start a new life in Skyrim, forget the past… but of course that isn’t going to happen. At the very least, he supposes he was free, truly free, for once in his life.

This Khajiit doesn’t want to die, but he’s fully prepared to do so.

“The last one’s not on the list,” the list soldier mutters, and Ja’kir glances up. “Come to think of it, where did we even pick up a Khajiit?” His commanding officer shrugs.

“What’s your name, cat?” The captain asks. Ja’kir takes another deep breath, and lets the air out slowly. If he’s going to die, he’ll at least die bravely, and he’ll die free.

“Ja’kir,” he murmurs. “It’s Ja’kir.” He doesn’t trust himself to talk normally, so he doesn’t say much. Unfortunately, it seems to have backfired. The captain looks even more suspicious.

“Well, do you think we should-”

“No,” the captain interrupted. “He's with the rest of the prisoners for a reason. Besides, he's a Khajiit. You know how they are.”

Ja’kir narrows his eyes, lashes his tail, but says nothing. The last thing he needs it to piss off these Imperials more.

“Alright,” the list soldier says, mostly to himself, then looks to Ja’kir. “I'm sorry. We’ll see that your remains are returned to your family.” With that, a different soldier shoves Ja’kir over towards the rest of the prisoners, leaving Ja’kir to wonder at the sheer irony of that statement.

If he'd had a family, then a lot of his problems would have been practically nonexistent. He'd come to Skyrim hoping to find them, among other things. Somehow, he doubted the list soldier could do what he could not, but kudos for trying.

“Next, the cat!”

By the time Ja’kir realizes they've already begun executing people, he's well on his way to the chopping block. A soldier shoves him to his knees, and holds him down. He watches the executioner raise the axe, and hold it there for a single tense second. In that time, his gaze has shifted to the sky.

Ja’kir hears the executioner begin swinging the axe. He cringes away from it, and closes his eyes...

The blow never comes. Ja’kir hesitantly opens his eyes, but they widen as he sees and hears - is that a dragon? He thought dragons were extinct in Skyrim. He thought

Apparently not, Ja’kir thinks to himself as the dragon proceeds to torch everything in sight. Against his better judgement, he grins weakly. Well, that's one hell of a miracle if Ja'kir ever saw one. Maybe it's not time to die yet.

“Hey, cat! Ja’kir! Get up, quick!”

Ja’kir freezes for a moment, but eventually does so. The guy yelling at him to get up is the talkative rebel. Ralof. The one with a sense of humor, despite heading towards certain death. Or what they all thought was certain death, anyway.

“This is our chance to escape,” Ralof continues. “Come on!” He sprints for a nearby building, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ja’kir follows. The other guy is in there, Ulfric Stormcloak. His gag has mysteriously disappeared. Ja’kir wonders where it went.

“Jarl Ulfric! Is that… is that really a dragon?” Ralof asks. “I thought they were a legend!”

“Legends don't burn down villages,” Ulfric Stormcloak says grimly in response. “We need to move.” Ja’kir couldn't agree more. He follows Ulfric and Ralof up the stairs, then backs up as a jet of fire comes literally out of nowhere, separating the three.

Ja’kir follows his instincts, and crouches. Once the fire has stopped, he leaps through, and lands rather roughly on the roof of another building, maybe an inn. He rolls down to the ground, and sees the list soldier helping some villagers to safety. Once the villagers are more or less out of harm’s way, he turns, and sees Ja’kir.

“Khajiit!” The list soldier exclaims, looking far more relieved to see Ja’kir than Ja’kir is to see him. “Stick with me, alright? We need to stay close to the wall.” Ja’kir eyes him skeptically, but follows the soldier. They're heading toward the keep, which is probably the best place to go, but…

“Hurry,” says the list soldier, “we need to get inside!” Ja’kir knows he's right, and despite this, he hesitates. The list soldier might seem friendly enough, but he’s an Empire soldier...

“Over here!” Ralof calls. Ja’kir turns, glances over there. It doesn't take long for him to make his decision. He bounds over to Ralof, the rebel Nord, and the two stumble into the keep through a different doorway, not a moment too soon.

“Don't like the Empire, huh?” Ralof asks after a moment. Ja’kir nods quickly as the guy cuts his own bonds on an exposed blade and picks it up. “Can’t say I blame you. Hold still.” Ja’kir does so, and he's so, so relieved when Ralof actually cuts his bonds instead of something else.

“Thanks,” Ja’kir says quietly. “What now?” Ralof shrugs.

“Ideally, we’d group up with Jarl Ulfric, but right now that's not the safest decision. Knowing him, he's halfway to Windhelm by now, so it's us we need to worry about.” He kneels down next to a dead Stormcloak, lying in a puddle of his own blood. Ja’kir notices this for the first time, and tries not to throw up.

“You a dagger person?” Ralof asks. Ja’kir thinks on this, but before he can make a decision Ralof passes him a dagger. “I'm best with a good pair of axes myself.” Ja’kir frowns, but takes the dagger’s sheath and buckles it to his waist.

“Don't know,” Ja’kir says truthfully. “So what n-” He hears it first, and backs up, away from the door. Ralof gets the message, and does the same.

“We need to find a key,” Ralof mutters. Ja’kir nods, and crouches. “Maybe one of the Imperials has it.” That makes sense. Suddenly, Ja’kir has an idea.

“J- I have an idea,” Ja’kir offers, hoping against hope Ralof didn't notice his slip-up. “If… we can trick them into coming in here…”

Ralof’s eyes light up, and he grins. “I like the way you think. Let's do this.”

Several dead soldiers later, Ja’kir really wants to throw up. He takes a shaky breath, then another.

“First time’s always the hardest,” Ralof says quietly. “It gets easier.” Ja'kir thinks he doesn't want it to get easier, but he doesn't voice that. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and lets it out.

“Alright,” Ja’kir murmurs, lashing his tail back and forth anxiously. “Thanks.”

Ralof nods. “I’ll go on ahead,” he says. “Give you a moment. If you can get on any armor, you should. Could save your life. I'd recommend Gunjar’s tunic myself, since he… won't get any more use out of it.” He leaves, and it's then it registers that Gunjar is the dead Stormcloak.

Ja’kir takes a deep breath and kneels next to the guy. He murmurs an apology, blinks hard, and gets to work.

“Glad you could join us,” Ralof says as Ja’kir hurtles in and practically launches himself into the guy he and another Stormcloak are attacking. Thanks to the combined onslaught of three, the guy collapses. “This is Ja'kir."

“The cat,” the other Stormcloak agrees, not looking directly at Ja’kir. It makes him rather uncomfortable, if he's being honest.

“We should stick together,” Ralof offers, extending a hand to the woman. “Strength in numbers.” She glances between him and Ja’kir, then shakes her head.

“I’ll pass,” she says. “Find another way out. Wait for Jarl Ulfric.” She heads back the way Ja’kir came, and Ja’kir glances back anxiously.

“Let's go,” Ralof says, then looks back at her receding figure and mumbles something rather derogatory under his breath. “If she wants to die here, well, that's her problem.” Ja’kir gulps, nods, and follows him out. He has a nasty feeling that they’ve got a long way to go.

Chapter 2: Love Triangles Don't End Well

Summary:

Neither does faking a letter from the other guy to make the girl hate him, Sven. Don't be like that.

Also, as it turns out, Khajiit have hands and feet. Not paws. I was surprised too.

Ja'kir and Ralof are bros and it's great.

Although Ja'kir will most likely stay neutral, if he has to choose a side, he won't be picking the Empire.

“I can't believe we survived that,” Ralof says wearily. Ja’kir silently agrees. The Nord takes a seat on a nearby rock, and it's then Ja’kir realizes just how exhausted he is. “Just need a moment…” Ja’kir nods, and crouches nearby. His tail curls behind him.

“They’ll be looking for us,” Ja’kir says at last. “You said you lived near here?” Ralof nods.

“Grew up in Riverwood, just down the road,” Ralof says. He points in what Ja’kir assumes is the village’s general direction. “My sister still lives there. I know she’ll hide me until it's safe to travel, but I don't know about you.” Ja’kir frowns. Considering the collective reputation of Khajiit around here… he's not wrong.

“If I can get a change of clothes, I won't need to hide,” Ja’kir says at last. He takes a moment to mentally congratulate himself for not slipping. “Otherwise, a Khajiit in Stormcloak uniform will attract quite a bit of attention.” Ralof nods, and stands.

“In that case,” Ralof reasons, “let's get going.” Ja’kir nods, and the two head down the road.

“So, what exactly is the rebellion about?” Ja’kir asks after a moment. Ralof stops in his tracks, turns, and stares at him in disbelief. “...should I know?”

“You’re not from Skyrim, then,” Ralof concludes. Ja’kir nods. “That explains it. If you were, you’d know. So where…?”

“Cyrodiil,” Ja’kir says quietly, and blinks hard. “So. Tell me about the rebellion.” Ralof nods, and continues walking. Ja’kir follows.

“You at least know that we’re a part of the Empire, right?” Ralof says. Ja’kir nods. Of course he knows that. “Good. Well, the rebellion started when the Empire outlawed the worship of Talos, one of our most important gods. Among… other things.”

Ja’kir frowns. “You started a rebellion because of a god that may or may not even exist?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Ralof grins sheepishly, but before he can say anything else, a wolf literally jumps out of nowhere. Ja’kir pulls out his dagger, then, on impulse, pulls out a second one and transfers it to his other hand. Before he can help Ralof, another wolf growls from behind him. Ja’kir’s fur bristles. He whirls around and strikes blindly with his right hand, then his left.

Apparently that worked, because his wolf collapses. He turns to help Ralof, but he’s got it covered. The two share a look, and Ja’kir sheathes his daggers first. He makes a mental note to keep using two at once, because it works. Somehow. For some reason.

“Two daggers, eh? Never seen that one before,” Ralof muses aloud. He sounds mildly amused, but not for long. “And… well, starting a rebellion for Talos might seem ridiculous from your point of view, but we take it quite seriously. Be careful who you say that to.” Ja’kir nods.

“Are we almost there?” He asks quietly. Ralof nods as they turn the bend, and three strange stones are standing off to the side. Ja’kir stops, and stares at them curiously. “What are those?” Ralof chuckles.

“Those, my friend, are the Guardian Stones. There’s a bunch more around Skyrim, but these are the three main ones. Choosing one might help you proceed along the path of your choosing. Or it could screw you up, but you never know until you try.”

Ja’kir nods, and studies them. One has some sort of magic implement on it, and Ja’kir rules that one out instantly. That leaves two more: one with a battleaxe and the other with a dagger. Likely, one is for thieves and the other is for… warriors? Well, Ja’kir knows what Ralof is expecting him to do. He smiles to himself as he chooses the opposite.

“Warrior, eh?” Ralof muses. “Good choice. Not what I was expecting, though.”

Ja’kir takes a deep breath. “That other one is for thieves, isn’t it?” Ralof nods.

“If you want to change your mind, I won’t judge,” Ralof says. Ja’kir visibly bristles, and Ralof seems to get the message. “Or… not. Alright, Riverwood’s right up here. Most of the folks in town are reasonable, but there’s some I’d rather not tangle with.” He winces.

“So we’re laying low,” Ja’kir concludes. Ralof nods.

“Follow me,” Ralof says, and Ja’kir does so. They skirt around the edge of town, eventually coming to a sort of lumber mill. There’s a woman there, and she looks suspiciously like Ralof. Ja’kir hopes that’s not just because she’s a Nord. Hopefully that’s his sister and not some random woman.

“Ralof!” She exclaims, hugging him. Ja’kir stands there awkwardly, and wishes he could disappear. “Mara's mercy, I’m so glad you’re alright. We heard about what happened. Almost feared the worst.” Ralof nods.

“Well, Gerdur, I don’t know exactly what you’ve heard,” he says, “but I suspect you haven’t heard the half of it. We need Hod, and preferably somewhere more private.” Gerdur nods, and then part of what Ralof says registers.

“We?” She questions, and then notices Ja’kir. “What are you doing with a Khajiit?” Ja’kir lashes his tail back and forth and back and forth, and wishes he could disappear even more fervently.

“I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for this Khajiit, sister,” Ralof says quickly. “But we need to talk, in private.” Gerdur nods, and goes to find her husband. Ja’kir’s tail twitches uncomfortably as he and Ralof wait, but he’s relieved to find that although her husband is very obviously a Nord, he doesn’t look related to them. So all Nords don’t look alike. He isn’t sure why he assumed they would. It isn’t like all Khajiit look alike, anyway. Or at least he doesn't think all Khajiit look alike. Maybe they do.

“This way,” Gerdur orders, leading everyone to a shady area on the edge of town. “Now, Ralof, what exactly is going on?” Ralof looks like he’s about to speak, but it’s then a kid comes running up.

“Uncle Ralof! Uncle Ralof!” He cheers, and Ralof looks like he, too, wants to disappear. Gerdur sighs. “Did you really get to fight with Ulfric Stormcloak? How tall is he? Can he really wield a warhammer with one hand?”

“I’ll be glad to tell you all that later,” Ralof manages. “How about you go watch the southern entrance to town?” The kid looks like he wants to argue, but a look from his mother puts an end to that.

“No one’ll sneak up on you, Uncle Ralof!” The kid cheers, and moves to run. Ralof grins as he leaves.

“He gets bigger every time I see him,” Ralof muses, and Gerdur nods. She’s a proud mother now, and she’s in her element. Ja’kir still wants to disappear, unsurprisingly. Not that he doesn't usually. “Well, anyway… where should I begin?” Ja’kir shrugs.

“Well,” Ralof says, “I guess what happened is, we were ambushed. We didn't stand a chance, truthfully. Ulfric ordered us to stop fighting, didn't want us to throw our lives away. Lot of good that did. They carted us off to Helgen and were this close to executing us all.”

“Then a dragon showed up,” Ja’kir offers helpfully. “We were able to escape in all the chaos.” Gerdur raises an eyebrow.

“A dragon? Truly?” Hod asks incredulously.

“I couldn't believe it myself,” Ralof says, “but it destroyed Helgen. We didn't see where it went.”

“No, but Sven’s mother did,” Gerdur cuts in. “It's all she's been talking about lately. Swears it flew right over the Barrow. We all thought she’d gone mad.”

“That sounds about right, but the Empire will be looking for us if any of them survived. You think we can lay low for a few days, play it safe?”

Gerdur shifts her weight uncomfortably. “I can only hide one,” she says quickly, looking over at her brother. Ja’kir wishes again he could disappear. Unfortunately, he can’t, but he can leave as quickly as possible.

“You only need to hide one,” Ja’kir says after a moment. “I can be on my way if I can get a change of clothes.” Gerdur nods, satisfied.

“If you want to make yourself useful,” she says, “then you should head up to Whiterun, and tell the Jarl what happened. Leaving out certain details, of course.” Ja’kir gulps. Lying never was his forte, and it sure isn't now. This is going to be fun.

“Alright,” Ja’kir manages. “Anywhere I can… I don't know, pick up supplies?” This time Hod answers with a nod.

“General store is the building with scales in front of it on the main drag, can't miss it,” Hod says briefly. “Blacksmith is right across from ‘em, if you need better weapons or armor. If you end up staying in town for a bit, the inn is just past the general store.’ Ja’kir nods respectfully.

“Thank you,” he says.

One change of clothes later, he leaves to begin looking for the general store. For a building that’s apparently impossible to miss, it’s rather hard to find, and that’s before he runs into the old lady who won’t shut up about dragons, or one in particular.

“Flew right over the barrow, it did,” she insists. Ja’kir listens uncomfortably, and wonders if it’s worth asking her for directions. “T’was all big, and black, and fiery!” Ja’kir nods politely, and it’s then someone steps out.

“Mother, please,” a Nord says tiredly. He sees Ja’kir, and raises an eyebrow. “What’s a cat doing in Riverwood?” Ja’kir shifts anxiously, and as he does so, he figures this guy is hopefully sane enough to give directions. Hopefully. Possibly. Maybe.

“J-I’ve been looking for the general store for an hour now,” Ja’kir admits. “I, uh. Came from Helgen. There was a dragon attack there.” The old woman lets out a triumphant screech, and her son steps away from her warily.

“I told you, Sven!” She crows. “I told you, didn’t I? That’ll teach you to respect your elders!” Ja’kir curls his tail around his feet, and shoots the Nord, Sven, a sympathetic look.

“That’s nice, mother,” he says, and heads over to Ja’kir. “Now, I can show you where the general store is, but I’ll need you to do me a favor.” Ja’kir doesn’t like the sound of that, but he nods, reluctantly, because he needs to find that store.

“Alright,” Ja’kir says slowly. “What do you need?” Sven grins, puts an arm around Ja’kir’s shoulder, and they begin walking. Ja’kir is not remotely okay with this.

“Well, there’s this girl I’m sweet on. Her name’s Camilla, Camilla Valerius. Her and her brother run the store,” he says. “But there’s one little issue.” From the way Sven says it, Ja’kir suspects it’s a lot more than one little issue, but he nods for him to continue regardless.

“There’s this wood elf, lives on the edge of town. His name’s Faendal, and I’ve seen him, sneaking in to talk to her when he thinks I’m not around,” Sven continues, and Ja’kir stiffens. Of course this is about a love triangle. Great. “He’s only fooling himself if he thinks she’ll ever be interested in the likes of him!”

“Right,” Ja’kir says uncomfortably, “because people spending time together never blossoms into romance.” He tries not to think of his admittedly-limited and rather painful experience with the subject.

“Is that supposed to be sarcasm? I’ve heard better from my mother,” Sven mutters, then shakes his head. “Well, you do have a point. That's why you need to give her this, and tell her it's from Faendal.” He presses a folded up paper into Ja’kir’s hand. A letter. Something’s fishy about this.

“Well,” Ja’kir stammers, “Ja- I… don't know-”

“Just give it to her,” Sven says, “and the rest will take care of itself. Anywhere, we’re here. The destination is on your right.” Ja’kir looks, sees the scales sign in front of the place, and wonders for a moment how he missed it.

“Alright,” Ja’kir says weakly. “Thanks.” Sven nods, and goes to lean against the wall. Now, Ja’kir doesn't really want to go in, he doesn't want to lie like this… but maybe he can fix this. Somehow. Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully. He blinks hard, pushes open the door only to come across an argument, and nearly walks right back out.

“You seriously expect me to just stay here and let them get away with this?” The woman, who Ja'kir figures is Camilla, scowls, and crosses her arms. “Lucan, please. I know how to handle myself. I can get the claw back.”

“I know you can,” the guy, Lucan, mutters, head in his hands, “I just don't want you to get hurt.” Camilla rolls her eyes, and it's then Lucan finally happens to glance up and notices Ja’kir.

“Would you look at that, a customer!” He exclaims. “By any chance are you an adventurer?” Ja’kir can't hide the shock he feels. He’s certainly not a soldier, or a thief, or a scholar… so maybe an adventurer would be the best option.

“Uh… maybe?” He manages. “Why?” Lucan grins.

“Well, we recently had a... bit of a break-in. Thieves were only after one thing: this golden dragon claw that we keep as a decoration. They're camped out at Bleak Falls Barrow, up on the mountain yonder. Think you can get it?”

Ja’kir thinks on this, and his conclusion is a resounding ‘maybe’.

“Sure,” Ja’kir says. He hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. Apparently that's enough for Lucan, though. For… some reason.

“Good,” Lucan says triumphantly. “I've got some coin coming in from my next shipment. It's yours if you get the claw back.” Ja’kir nods quickly.

“Excuse me, Lucan, but what is the meaning of this?” Camilla cuts in. “I can do anything that cat can do!”

“I know, but now you don't have to,” Lucan says, then turns to Ja’kir. “Now, do you need anything while you’re in here, or…?” Ja’kir takes a deep breath, and pulls out Sven’s letter. Hands shaking, he passes it to Camilla.

“This is for you,” he says miserably, and blinks hard. Camilla opens it, and her jaw drops. Before he can stop himself, he adds, “Sven… he wrote it. He... he told me. To tell you it was from Faendal.” Camilla’s eyes widen. She crumples the letter up, and stuffs it in a pocket.

“Come with me,” she says bluntly as she heads out. Ja’kir freezes. He glances at Lucan, who shrugs casually, and then follows her. Naturally, she's already chewing out Sven.

“How could you do this?” She asks angrily, shoving the letter in Sven’s face. He honestly looks terrified, and Ja’kir’s glad. “I know you don't like Faendal, but he has something you’ll never have. Common. Decency.”

Sven opens his mouth to protest, then closes it. His gaze finds Ja’kir, and it turns murderous. Ja'kir flinches.

“So you’re going to trust a cat over me?” Sven spits. “It's not my fault Faendal’s a little-”

“Don't even try,” Camilla says flatly. “I never want to see your face again. You'd better hope you have somewhere else to get food, because Lucan won't be selling to you either. And you know what? This Khajiit is more honorable than you’ll ever be. Goodbye, Sven.” She storms back inside. Ja’kir doesn't even look at Sven as he follows.

“I told you he was bad news,” Lucan says quietly. “Bards always are.” Ja’kir raises an eyebrow, more confused than anything else.

“He certainly is,” Camilla says, then turns to Ja’kir. “Thank you for telling me the truth, uh…”

“Ja’kir,” he supplies. “It’s nothing. Really.”

Camilla frowns. “No, it isn’t. If you’d gone along with his plan, it likely would have worked. So thank you.” Camilla glances over at her brother. “Lucan, I’m just going to show him to the edge of town, to the path up to the Barrow.”

“Fine,” Lucan says. “Be careful.” Camilla rolls her eyes, and heads out. Ja’kir shrugs apologetically and follows her.

“Our parents died when we were young,” Camilla explains as they head down the main path. “So he’s a little… overprotective. I’d be the same way if I was in his place, so I can't really- oh! Faendal!” She runs up to an wood elf with a bow on his back, and proceeds to explain what happened. Ja’kir stands there awkwardly, and wishes he had something to say. Eventually, they come back over.

“Faendal, this is Ja’kir,” Camilla says. “Ja’kir, Faendal. He’ll be helping you in the Barrow.” Judging by the elf’s expression - Faendal’s expression - he has about as much choice in this as Ja’kir did, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much. That's probably for the best.

“Camilla told me what you did,” Faendal offers, bowing slightly. “You didn’t even know who I was, and yet you stood up for me. Thank you, truly.”

Ja’kir lashes his tail back and forth anxiously. “J- I. Don’t like lying,” he manages, embarrassed. “That’s why I told the truth.” Faendal nods.

“I don’t particularly care why you did it,” Faendal says, “but I’m glad you did. Now… shall we go retrieve this lovely lady’s treasure?” Camilla blushes deeply, nods, and begins stammering things incoherently. Faendal bows politely, but unless Ja’kir is mistaken, he too is blushing slightly. Either that or wood elves are naturally colored like that. Somehow, Ja’kir doubts that’s the case.

These two are perfect for each other, Ja’kir realizes. He’s so glad he told the truth, now more than ever. He doesn’t want to think of what might have happened, could have happened, would have happened if he’d done what Sven wanted him to and lied.

Sven is a despicable person, he concludes as he nods a goodbye to Camilla. She heads back into town, and Ja’kir follows Faendal up the mountain path.

“Glad you know where you’re going,” Ja’kir admits after a moment, “because Ja- I. Don’t.” Either Faendal doesn’t catch his slip-up or doesn’t bother to comment on it, and if it’s the second option Ja’kir is immensely grateful.

“Neither do I,” Faendal admits after a moment. Ja’kir’s a little surprised. “But the path seems rather straightforward, I’m surprised Camilla didn’t go herself.” Ja’kir nods.

“She would have if I hadn’t come along,” Ja’kir concludes. “Possibly. I got recruited by her brother initially.” Faendal chuckles.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Chapter 3: Bros in Bleak Falls Barrow

Summary:

Ja'kir and Faendal are bros now. Surviving a dungeon together tends to do that to people.

Also, Faendal is savage.

We might actually get some backstory next chapter, I dunno. Maybe. Don't count on it.

“Well, this is it,” Faendal muses aloud. “Bleak Falls Barrow. Somehow, it seems less menacing from here, and yet…” Ja’kir nods in agreement.

“They’ll have sentries,” Ja’kir says, and not a second later a single arrow shoots its way into the ground between them. It's a warning shot, or the bandit sentries have terrible aim, and Ja’kir hopes to whatever gods might happen to exist that it's the second option. “...I can sneak around behind them, be a distraction.” Faendal nods, and fits an arrow to his bow. They both crouch.

“Don't get caught,” Faendal warns as Ja’kir unsheathes his daggers and slips away. Ja’kir nods in acknowledgement as he passes out of Faendal’s view, and as he creeps up on the bandits, he’s incredibly grateful for his natural stealth. There’s three of them, and only one has a bow. In fact, the one with a bow is the only one standing, and if Ja’kir’s careful…

He pads up behind the bow bandit, and reaches up.

“Hey!” One of the others yells suddenly, actually noticing him. “Look out!” It’s too late. Ja’kir’s already slit the bow bandit’s throat, and he’s disgusted by how easily he does it. He doesn’t act on his disgust, though. Instead, he dashes back to where Faendal is, and if he’s not mistaken, the other two are hot on his heels.

“Only one of them had a bow,” Ja’kir explains. “We can take the other two. There’s some sort of temple, the rest are probably inside.” Faendal nods, and pulls out a dagger. Ja’kir whirls around, and it’s two against two.

“Cat and an elf, eh?” Bandit #1 asks, and laughs. “Well, you’ve lost your element of surprise, and you can’t shoot us at close range. Give it up and we might let you live.” He’s high, Ja’kir can smell the skooma from here. He wrinkles his nose at the stench.

“Never,” Faendal says, narrowing his eyes. “Where’s the claw?” Bandit #1 looks to Bandit #2, who shrugs.

“No idea,” Bandit #2 says. “Prob’ly… prob’ly th’others have it. Why?” The second bandit at least doesn’t stink of skooma, but he’s slurring his words, and Ja’kir would bet a hefty sum that he’s drunk.

“They want it back, obviously,” Bandit #1 says, pulling out a sword and shield. “We’re not gonna let them have it, are we?” Bandit #2 pulls out a battered-looking greatsword, and the two charge. Ja’kir sidesteps the initial attack and glances to Faendal, who looks unimpressed.

“I’ve seen more intimidating children,” Faendal mutters. He sighs. “I’ll take the one with the greatsword.” Before Ja’kir can so much as acknowledge him, he’s rushed Bandit #2, and Ja’kir quickly moves to deal with #1. He ducks under the (likely) skooma addict’s first swing and retaliates by swinging both of his daggers wildly until Bandit #1 collapses and doesn’t get up again.

Ralof was right. It did get easier, killing got easier, but that knowledge is no comfort to Ja’kir. He still wants to throw up, and he hopes he will for a long time.

“You’re sneakier than I am,” Faendal says quietly, breaking the terrible, terrible silence, “so do you think you can head in and figure out what they’re up to? I’ll see if we can salvage anything off them.” He gestures in the general direction of the two dead bandits, and Ja’kir nods. He wants no part in touching a corpse, although… maybe that will get easier, too.

“Got it,” Ja’kir says, crouching and padding up to the door. He silently pushes it open, just enough for him to slip inside, and closes it behind him. It’s dark, almost pitch black, with the only illumination coming from a campfire on the other side of the cavern. He focuses on the light, on the fire, and suddenly he can see. Not well, just shapes and colors, but… it’s something. It’s also something he didn’t know he could do.

That’s new, Ja’kir realizes as he creeps ever-closer to the campfire. Useful, too. It’s eerily quiet in the cavern, too quiet, and when someone finally speaks, he nearly jumps out of his pelt.

“So how long are we waiting for Arvel?”

Ja’kir pauses a moment, allows his heart to slow down at least a little, and continues listening in. There’s someone named Arvel, the others are waiting for him to do something. With Ja’kir’s luck, this Arvel person has the claw with him.

“Until he comes back, Harknir,” another bandit says. “You know this.” Harknir lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“But Bjorn, we’re all tired and I, for one, am willing to bet this is a wild goose chase. We should just go. I’m up for revisiting that store, taking some actual loot. What ab-”

“Both of you, shut up,” a third person cuts in. “I’m in charge when Arvel’s not here, and we’re waiting for him. If he’s not back in another hour, we go in after him.”

“But Soling-”

“He hasn’t been wrong yet, Harknir. He won’t be wrong about the claw.”

That’s all Ja’kir needed to hear. He slips back out, back into the snow and chill, and back over to Faendal. The wood elf’s pack looks significantly less empty, and Faendal looks rather satisfied with himself.

“They had decent gear, just didn’t know how to use it,” Faendal supplies. “They both had some health potions. Probably will save both our skins.” Ja’kir nods, and attempts to look like he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“There’s only three of them there,” Ja’kir says. “Their leader went in deeper, alone. With the claw.” Faendal groans.

“Of course he did,” Faendal mutters. “Well, I can’t say I like caves, but it could be worse. Shall we go?” Ja’kir nods, and the two slip back in.

Three dead bandits and one very nauseous Khajiit later, it’s over. There’s several bedrolls, a skeever roasting over the fire that smells worse than fresh skooma, and a chest. It’s locked, and Ja’kir can’t find the key. He’s looked, reluctantly. Maybe the Arvel person has it.

“You really aren’t an adventurer, are you?” Faendal asks after a moment. Ja’kir flattens his ears back, and slowly, reluctantly, shakes his head. “That’s fine, me either, but here. You try.” He passes Ja’kir some sort of metal implement - a lockpick - and nods to the lock.

“You want me to-?” Ja’kir manages. Faendal nods. “J… alright.” He sticks the lockpick in, and fiddles with it, and fiddles with it some more, and-

CRACK!

The lockpick’s snapped clean in half. Ja’kir winces at the noise, then realizes Faendal’s offering him another pick. He accepts it gratefully, and tries again. Maybe a little more to the left… no, to the right…

CRACK!

More to the right, then.

“Last lockpick,” Faendal warns. “Bandits didn’t have any more.” Ja’kir nods, and positions the lockpick just so...

Click.

The chest’s open. Ja’kir grins, and offers the lockpick back to Faendal. He smiles, but doesn’t take it.

“I wouldn’t have been able to pick that with three lockpicks,” Faendal says. “More like thirty. I’m not good with that sort of thing. Haven’t done much since I came to Riverwood, either, so lack of practice is probably part of it. Useful skill for an adventurer, so I’ll pass any other lockpicks I find over to you.”

Ja’kir nods, then realizes something. “But… J- I’m not. An adventurer,” he points out. “I just told you that.”

“No, you’re not,” Faendal agrees. “But Camilla and her brother think you are, and I doubt you have anything against maintaining that illusion. Besides, as far as I can tell, you did good.”

Ja’kir opens his mouth, then closes it. He really can’t think of anything to say to that, so he says nothing. The two continue down into the depths of the Barrow in silence, fighting off the occasional skeever but otherwise not seeing much aside from the cobwebs. As they go deeper, the skeevers all but disappear, and the cobwebs only grow more numerous.

Ja’kir has a bad feeling about this, but he and Faendal press on. Eventually, they come to a mass of cobwebs, covering the way in, and Ja’kir moves to cut them down.

“There’s a spider here somewhere,” Faendal says grimly, examining the webbing. “A big one, too, to be able to put up this amount of webbing this quickly.” Ja’kir shrinks away from the webbing, but continues cutting it down after a moment’s hesitation. “I wonder…”

“Hello?” Someone calls from inside, and both Faendal and Ja’kir freeze. “Is… is someone there? Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?” Ja’kir finishes it, and glances to Faendal. The Bosmer nods, fitting an arrow to his bow, and the two dash inside.

“Where’s the spider?” Faendal asks, heading over to what Ja’kir realizes is someone trapped in the webbing. “And while we’re on the subject, where’s the claw?” The guy trapped in the webbing looks terrified, and Ja’kir isn’t sure whether it’s of them or something else. He’s not sure he wants to know, either, but this must be Arvel.

“Quick, cut me down before it-” The guy gasps, and Ja’kir whirls around. “Kill it! Kill it! Don’t let it get me!” Ja’kir does his best to ignore Arvel, instead dashing for the spider and slashing wildly. He doubts he’d get any awards for technique, but at least it works… somewhat.

The spider shoots something at him, and Ja’kir stumbles.

“Duck!” Faendal yells, and Ja’kir does so. A single arrow flies overhead, so close Ja’kir can feel it passing. The spider lets out a wild screech, flails wildly in what Ja’kir figures looks about like him when he’s fighting, and collapses.

“Thanks,” Ja’kir murmurs as he gets up and dusts himself off, trying not to think about how close to death he'd just come. Faendal nods, and the two return their attention to Arvel. “So. Where's the claw?” Arvel nods.

“The claw, yes, the claw,” Arvel says quickly. “Yes, I have the claw. I'll give it to you if you cut me down.” Ja’kir looks to Faendal, who shrugs.

Well, Ja’kir thinks, Faendal can always shoot him if he runs...

“Alright,” Ja’kir agrees. “Hold still.” He slashes through the webbing, and Arvel begins rummaging through his bag for something.

“Let's see, the claw, the claw…” Arvel frowns. “It has to be here somewhere… ah! Here… it is!”

The next thing he knows, he's on the ground, spitting dirt out of his mouth, and Arvel is running like hell in the opposite direction.

“Faendal!” Ja’kir yells, scrambling to get up. “It's all up to you!” Faendal nods, and fits an arrow to his bow faster than should be possible. He fires, and Arvel stumbles, but doesn't fall, and dodges around a corner.

“We’ll catch up to him eventually,” Faendal says, pulling Ja’kir up. Ja’kir frowns. His expression must look pretty hopeless, because he can see the sympathy in Faendal’s eyes. “The barrow can’t go on forever, and unless he’s really lucky…”

A scream echoes down the corridor. Ja’kir’s eyes widen.

“...the draugr will get him,” Faendal finishes.

Ja’kir gulps. “But won’t they get us?”

“Not if we’re careful,” Faendal says, crouching. Ja’kir follows suit. “And not if we avoid fighting all of them at once.” He fits another arrow to his bow, and nods for Ja’kir to go ahead. He does so, and picks up his daggers where they fell. Ja’kir turns the corner first, and freezes.

“What… is that?” Ja’kir whispers, staring at the skeletal warrior and hoping against hope the thing’s notable lack of ears will prevent it from hearing him.

“That,” Faendal whispers back, “is a draugr.” The thing’s back is still turned, so Ja’kir takes a deep breath, creeps up behind it, and strikes.

As the draugr falls, Ja’kir reminds himself that whatever it is, it's already dead. Despite this, he winces.

“Well,” Ja’kir murmurs, “we’d better catch up to our friend. Somehow I doubt he got far.” Faendal nods, and the two continue. As it turns out, Arvel did get rather far. By the time Ja’kir and Faendal catch up to him, he's already in what looks like the final chamber.

Ja’kir creeps up behind him, and unsheathes his daggers. Arvel still hasn't noticed him. He glances back to Faendal, who nods ever-so-slightly.

This one is so, so sorry, he thinks as he does the deed. Arvel drops like a stone. He doesn’t like this, but… at this point, Ja’kir thinks he’s figured out that he has to.

“I don’t like it either,” Faendal admits from behind him. “Unfortunately, many here will keep fighting until they win or they die.”

Right, Ja’kir realizes. You’re not from around here either. Out loud, he says, “I’ll get used to it eventually.”

A wall at the back of the cavern catches his eye. It’s got some sort of strange writing on it, and… either he’s high on skooma, or it’s glowing, and last he checked he wasn’t high on skooma. He frowns, and goes to check it out.

“I hope not,” Faendal says. Ja’kir nearly trips on the crude stone stairs. He glances back, confused. “It’s not easy for me. I hope it never will be. But I do what I must, and I try not to think about it after.” He kneels down next to Arvel, and begins rummaging around in the bandit’s pack.

Somehow, Ja’kir gets the feeling that it’s now or never. He continues toward the wall, which is still glowing, and… now he thinks he can hear something. Chanting, in some ancient language… maybe. There’s no way he should know it, and yet… somehow, it sounds vaguely familiar. He glances back at Faendal, who should be hearing this, seeing this, but Faendal’s still searching for the claw.

Ja’kir takes a deep breath, sheathes his daggers, and touches the wall. He’s hesitant, and yet… somehow, this feels like the right thing to do. The chanting grows louder, then stops altogether. Ja’kir stumbles backwards. He feels… different, somehow. It’s a feeling he can’t quite put to words, and yet…

Maybe, he tells himself silently, this one is high on skooma. And… maybe not. As screwed up as the past few days have been, Ja’kir is pretty sure he’d know if he was high on skooma, so…

“Found it,” Faendal says triumphantly. Ja’kir turns around, and sees Faendal holding up what must be the claw. It’s a claw for sure, and it’s also golden, so… well, Ja’kir supposes he’d know what it looked like, at least. “What are you doing up there?” Ja’kir shrugs. He hopes he doesn’t look as confused as he feels.

“Thought I heard something,” Ja’kir says, and begins to head down. That’s when he actually does hear something. Both of them hear it, because Faendal freezes. “What-”

“Behind you!” Faendal yells, going for his bow. Ja’kir ducks, pulls out his knives, and turns around. He barely avoids an attack from something suspiciously draugr-like, except last he checked, draugr collapsed after a couple of strikes from him or an arrow or two from Faendal. This thing seems a whole lot more deadly.

“So much for this being easy,” Ja’kir mutters. His instincts kick in, and he kicks his leg out, tripping the more powerful draugr and sending it crashing down. He leaps on it, and begins slashing. It starts to get up, and Ja’kir tries not to freak out. It strikes, and he strikes back. This continues for some time, until Ja’kir’s ready to pass out.

An arrow from Faendal lodges itself rather firmly where the thing’s eyes would be, and it finally, finally, collapses. Personally, Ja’kir wouldn’t mind collapsing himself. Instead, he crouches, presses a hand to his side, and tries not to cry out from the pain.

“I’ll look for a different way out,” Faendal says quietly, setting down a red-colored potion beside the fallen draugr. “Drink this, and try not to move while it works on you. It’ll take a moment.” Ja’kir nods, and as Faendal heads down a side passage he reaches for the potion. Pain explodes in his side again, and he audibly winces. With his other hand, he reaches for the potion, pulls it back, and downs the contents.

Don't move, Ja’kir reminds himself. The pain’s already lessening, somewhat, but he wills himself to stay perfectly motionless despite this. His gaze wanders, though, and finds some sort of stone lying next to the draugr. There’s some sort of markings on it… and it doesn't look that heavy…

Experimentally, he reaches out, and when the pain doesn't instantly come back, he grasps the stone.

Chapter 4: Last Day In Riverwood(?)

Summary:

Ja'kir spends his last day in Riverwood preparing for the trip to Whiterun... among other things.

Of course, this probably isn't the last day he'll ever be in Riverwood.

Innkeeper Delphine is terrifying enough before we get her backstory, I swear.

Also, backstory! I'm not crying, you're crying.

“I still can’t believe we survived that,” Faendal remarks as they reenter Riverwood. Ja’kir nods quickly. “In any case, here’s what I picked up, I don’t have any use for it, you can just give the claw back to Camilla and-”

“Nope,” Ja’kir interrupts. He grins. “You’re coming with me, to… how did you put it? ‘Return this lovely lady’s treasure?’ You’re coming anyway.” Faendal looks significantly redder than usual.

“Alright,” he agrees, and the two head into the shop. Faendal manages an awkward wave, and for once, it’s up to Ja’kir to not be the awkward one.

“We’re back!” Ja’kir says proudly. “We got the claw, and those bandits won’t be bothering you anymore!” The Valerius siblings both look at least somewhat happy, and Ja’kir suspects a dragon is born every time Lucan smiles, so…

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Lucan says after a moment. Ja’kir pulls out the claw and passes it over. “Don’t know what we would have done without you.” Camilla rolls her eyes rather dramatically next to him.

“Well, I would have gone,” Camilla mutters, then grins, “but how did it go?” Faendal opens his mouth to answer, then closes it. Ja’kir really hates having to be the not-awkward one, or at least less awkward.

“Pretty well, but you should have seen Faendal!” Ja’kir says cheerfully. “Definitely wouldn’t have been able to do it without him!” Faendal mumbles something under his breath, and Ja’kir’s pretty sure he’s turned an even deeper shade of red. Well, apparently embarrassing people is something Ja’kir can add to his rather small list of skills.

“Well, I, uh…” Faendal stammers, nowhere near as cool and collected as usual.

“Oh, hush up, you did great,” Camilla exclaims, pulling Faendal into an embrace. “You heard Ja’kir!” With that, Ja’kir awkwardly backs away, because a minute of not being awkward in more ways than one is a minute too long. He backs out, and tries to think of where to go next. He could go to Whiterun now, or…

Ja’kir’s gaze travels across the road through the middle of town, to the blacksmith’s forge, and the beginning of an idea pops into his head. He heads over.

“Hello,” Ja’kir says quietly. The blacksmith doesn’t respond, and it takes him a second to realize he probably can’t hear him over his hammering. He takes a deep breath. “Um… hello?” This time, he says it a bit louder. The blacksmith’s gaze meets his, and after a moment, he stops hammering, sets his stuff aside, and dusts off his apron.

“What can I do for you?” The blacksmith asks. He’s not outright unfriendly, but his demeanor seems to suggest that if Ja’kir doesn’t have any business with him, then he’d better get going, right now.

“Well, uh… I was wondering-”

“Spit it out, kid, I haven’t got all day.”

Ja’kir gulps. “Uh. Do you… sell armor?” The man’s demeanor shifts slightly. He thinks on this, and eyes Ja’kir suspiciously.

“Depends,” he says. “It’ll cost you, ‘specially if you want some of the heavy stuff.” Ja’kir shakes his head quickly.

“No,” Ja’kir says quickly. “I’d… prefer light.” The blacksmith nods. Ja’kir thinks he can detect respect in the man’s gaze, although he’s honestly not sure. Could be contempt. Considering the collective reputation of Khajiit as a whole, it probably is contempt. Nobody in their right mind would respect a Khajiit.

“Something to be said for going light,” the blacksmith muses, thinking hard. “It’ll be 235 septims for a full set of leather armor, and I’ll have to make first. But, I’ve got a spare set of hide armor lying around here someplace, and that’ll be 95. I’ll need some of the coin in advance if it’s leather you’ll be wanting.”

Ja’kir tries to think of how much he has. He’s found quite a bit of gold here and there. Some from Helgen. Some from the Barrow, which Faendal insisted he take at least half of. It’s a decent sum, but it’s certainly not enough for the leather armor. Somehow, he gets the feeling that the hide armor won’t be all that great, so…

“I’m not sure how much I have,” Ja’kir says quietly. “It’s at least a hundred septims, but I know I don’t have enough for the leather. I could… help you make it? Help you out for a day?” The blacksmith raises an eyebrow.

“You? Forge something?” He chuckles. “Don’t make me laugh. With all due respect, you’re a Khajiit. A cat. Tell me, why haven’t you robbed me blind if you don’t have the money?” Ja’kir narrows his eyes.

“Because that’s not what J- that’s not what I do,” Ja’kir says. “I know a lot of Khajiit are thieves, assassins. I would die before becoming either of those.” The blacksmith nods, although Ja’kir’s not sure whether it’s out of respect or just acknowledgment.

“What’s your name, kid?” The blacksmith asks after a moment.

“Ja’kir.”

The blacksmith nods, this time definitely out of respect, and Ja’kir dares to hope for a moment that this will go well.

“Alvor,” he says. “Now, I’m going to let you help me out at the forge for today. Depending on how quickly you learn, you might be able to actually help, or you might be in the way. If, by the end of the day, you’ve proven yourself enough, you can have the set of leather for free, with the satisfaction that you helped make it. Or, you can leave and come back by sundown, and pay the full amount or take the hide. How does that sound?”

Ja’kir nods, maybe a little too quickly. “What do you want me to do first?”

“Honestly?” Alvor asks. Ja’kir nods again. “Shut up, and watch what I do.” He does so. By the end of the day, Ja’kir’s exhausted, but he has a full set of leather armor, and Alvor’s respect. He suspects that the second was far harder to get than the first.

“Thank you,” Ja’kir says again. Alvor nods. “Really.”

“There aren’t enough honorable Khajiit,” Alvor answers. “If they all had your morals, I daresay I wouldn’t have a problem with the rest of them.” He points in the general direction of the inn, and claps Ja’kir on the shoulder. “Talk to Delphine, she’ll put you up for the night. Although… out of curiosity, did you come from Helgen?” Ja’kir gulps.

“Yes,” Ja’kir says. “I was passing through… why?” Alvor shrugs.

“My nephew’s with the Legion. Said in his last letter he was stationed there. Maybe you saw him. It’ll be a shame if he doesn’t at least stop by while he’s in the vicinity, you know?”

Ja’kir realizes, suddenly, that Alvor looks suspiciously like the list soldier, back in Helgen, back when… back when the dragon attacked. Guilt comes, out of nowhere, and threatens to crush him. He takes a deep breath, then another. He can’t breathe deeply enough.

“I don’t think your nephew will be stopping by anytime soon,” Ja’kir says quietly. “While I was there, a dragon attacked the city. I barely got out alive, and only because the Legion was distracting it when I ran.” He hesitates before looking at Alvor, and realizes that his expression is unreadable.

“Well,” Alvor says quietly, “at least if he fell, he fell bravely.” He sighs. “You’d better get going. I… need some time.” Ja’kir nods quickly, and hightails it in the direction of the inn. It’s called the Sleeping Giant, apparently, and it’s surprisingly empty.

“You’ll be wanting a room, I suppose?”

Ja’kir whirls around, and sees a woman. He supposes this is the innkeeper, the Delphine lady. He nods quickly, and tries not to be intimidated by her. Why would he be intimidated by an innkeeper, anyway? He gulps.

“Um. Yes,” Ja’kir manages. He can practically feel her judging him. “How much?” She doesn’t take her eyes off him. He wonders if she’s this intimidating with everyone. Probably is, because half the people he’s met so far are, and some of them weren’t even Nords. Innkeeper lady isn’t a Nord, anyway. He’s pretty sure she’s a Breton.

“Ten septims and it’s yours for the night,” she says. He nods, and begins counting it out quickly. “Steal anything, and you won’t make it out of town.” Ja’kir nods again, this time quickly, maybe a little too quickly.

“Okay,” he squeaks out, hoping fervently that he doesn’t sound as terrified as he is of her, because she’s scary. He passes her the money. “Wasn’t planning on it. Where do I…?” The innkeeper points in the general direction of a room, and Ja’kir hightails it. He trips over the floor as he reaches for the doorknob, and nearly falls flat on his face.

“Wrong door,” the innkeeper lady says coldly as he opens it and is greeted with the great outdoors, and a chilly breeze coming through the doorway. “Try the one on the left.” Ja’kir feels like he’d be a bright red if it wasn’t for all his fur. As is, his face feels like it’s on fire. He nods, and reaches for the right doorknob, and heads in. He closes the door behind him, sets his pack down, and practically collapses into the bed.

Ja’kir opens his eyes to an all-too familiar scene. He knows full well where he is. He's back in Cyrodill, back in… no. No, this can't be right. He's in Skyrim now. This is all in the past… right?

“Mornin’, sunshine,” someone says to his left, someone he thought he'd never hear again. He glances over. Dark eyes meet amber, and his best friend laughs. “Well, much as I'd love to let you sleep longer, I can't handle the boss on my own. So c’mon!” Ja’kir - no, that's not his name here - frowns.

“This one had the strangest dream,” he says quietly as he sits up. “It was in Skyrim, and it… it…” He freezes as he remembers what happened to her, and tries not to cry. It was just a dream, after all. Just a dream. Nothing more.

“You were in Skyrim? Wow,” Aless says in awe, then grins. “Tell this one about it later, alright Jak?”

“Will do,” he says, then pauses. “Wait. What did you…?” He can't even get the words out, and Aless looks confused. She lashes her tail from side to side.

“What did Aless… what?”

Ja’kir closes his eyes, and once again tries not to cry. This time, he fails. When he meets her gaze, his eyes are already filling with tears.

“You're not real,” he says quietly. “This is the dream.” Now Aless looks even more confused.

“Look,” she says, “let's just get started, and this one will take you down to the Temple to get you checked out later, alright?” Ja’kir shakes his head.

“No,” he says quietly. “You didn't call me Jak. Or Ja’kir, for that matter. My name wasn't Ja’kir here. I chose that name… after… after you… I’m sorry.” He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, but as he does so, the scene changes. Ja’kir’s eyes widen. He remembers this, which means… oh no. Oh no no no-

Ja’kir’s eyes fly open. He shoots up, breathing heavily. He's covered in sweat, and he's… he's in a bed. In the inn, in Riverwood, in Skyrim. Away from Cyrodiil. Away from what happened.

Aless…

Silently, he hugs his knees to his chest, and he cries.

Once it's a more decent hour, and it's no longer dark outside, he changes into his new armor and leaves. The mildly terrifying innkeeper lady is the only one up. She nods in Ja’kir’s general direction as he slips out, and he starts on the road to Whiterun.

Chapter 5: Obviously That was a Hagraven

Summary:

THE COMPANIONS ARE HERE! Finally.

Well, three of them are here, but we'll get formally introduced to the rest next chapter.

It'll be great. Maybe not so great for Ja'kir, considering how awkward he is. *shoves him in the general direction of Jorrvaskr*

Also, Aela the Huntress is pretty much sarcasm incarnate. Seriously. She's great.

Ja’kir knows next to nothing about Skyrim. Strike that, he basically knows nothing about Skyrim. Growing up and living primarily in Cyrodiil can do that. Ja’kir might not know anything about Skyrim, but he’s still pretty sure that three people attacking a giant person in a field isn’t exactly ordinary, even for a province full of warmongering Nords. Ja’kir takes a deep breath, makes his decision, and charges in.

Now that he’s closer, he can see that the three clearly know what they’re doing. A Nord in heavy armor, some sort of metal, is dealing the brunt of the damage, while an Imperial in significantly less heavy armor is doing her best to distract the thing while still getting in a hit here and there. Another Nord is wielding a bow, taking potshots from afar, and it’s her that Ja’kir goes up to.

“Um, hey,” Ja’kir stammers, and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Can I help?” She stops shooting for a moment to look at him incredulously, and Ja’kir internally cringes. Can I help. Dumbest thing he’s ever heard, nevermind said. Why did he even-

“Sure, just don’t get yourself killed,” the Nord with the bow says after a moment, and aims. “Or anyone else, for that matter.” She releases the arrow, and fits another to her bow. Ja’kir nods his assent, unsheathes his daggers, and races in. He still has no idea what he’s doing. Well, no. That’s not quite right. He has some idea what he’s doing, even if it's not a lot.

When he leaps onto the giant person - quite possibly an actual giant, now that he thinks about it - he tries not to look like he doesn’t know what he’s doing at first, but he soon has bigger things to worry about. Like not getting thrown off this giant… person. Maybe an actual giant. He can’t remember if giants are in Skyrim or not, or what they even look like, but it would make sense for a giant to be… well, giant.

After nearly getting thrown off for the third time, Ja’kir gives up on slashing at the thing for the time being. He jabs a dagger into the giant’s shoulder, and desperately holds on as it roars and tries to shake him off. Good news, it seems more preoccupied with him than the others. Bad news, it seems more preoccupied with him than the others. He uses what little strength he has to jab his other dagger a bit higher, and tries not to wince.

The Nord with the greatsword yells something that Ja’kir figures is some sort of battlecry as he deals the final blow. The giant collapses, and Ja’kir at least has the sense to leap off before he goes down with the thing. He’s still not sure if it’s a giant or something else, but whatever. He’s got bigger things to worry about. Not literally.

“That was… eventful,” the Nord woman with the bow remarks, putting away her bow. Ja’kir sheathes his daggers, and glances over. She’s got flyaway red hair, some sort of warpaint streaked across her face, and a look in her eyes Ja’kir can’t quite figure out. She's pretty. “Well, congratulations. You didn’t get yourself killed.” Ja’kir grins uneasily.

“Uh, yeah,” Ja’kir says awkwardly. “J- I try not to.” He gulps. “So, uh. Do any of you know where Whiterun is? I… might be lost.”

“Just down that way,” the Imperial girl offers, along with a grin. She seems to be the most friendly of the three, seeing as one of the two Nords hasn’t said a word yet, and the other is quite sarcastic. “We’re heading back there now, if you want to come with us! You’re good with those daggers.” Ja’kir freezes.

“Well, uh-”

“I don’t know about good,” the Nord archer counters, “but you could have done a lot worse, and you’ve got courage. That’s something, at least.” She nods respectfully, and it’s then Ja’kir realizes that maybe, just maybe, randomly attacking the giant thing was the right thing to do, in a province full of warmongering Nords.

“So, uh,” he stammers, “was that a giant?” The archer looks at him incredulously.

“No, it was a hagraven,” she says dryly. “Yeah, that was a giant. Not from Skyrim, are you?” Ja’kir shakes his head quickly.

“Cyrodiil,” Ja’kir confirms. “J-I’m Ja’kir.” He tries not to look nervous. He’s pretty sure he’s failing miserably.

“Aela,” the archer says impassively, then gestures to the Imperial. “She’s Ria. Guy who’s practically a giant over here is Farkas. He doesn’t bite, usually.” Ja’kir nods, and tries not to think about what might be implied there.

“Um, great,” Ja’kir agrees, trying not to be too intimidated by the group of warriors and definitely failing miserably. He hopes they can’t tell. Eventually, he gives up, and falls back to a comfortable distance behind the trio.

“So,” Aela says as they’re approaching what probably is Whiterun, glancing Ja’kir’s way, “you should come down to Jorrvaskr, have the old man take a look at you. Who knows, you might make a halfway-decent shield-brother.” Ja’kir frowns. He’s wondering if he’s missing something.

“Uh,” Ja’kir manages, “okay. So… what exactly, uh, is a shield-brother?” Aela’s almost wolfish grin, combined with the look in her eyes, makes him regret asking almost instantly, and edge a little ways back.

“You haven’t heard of the Companions?”

Ja’kir gulps. “Um… I’ve... heard the name before? Like, twice?”

“You haven’t heard of the Companions,” Aela repeats. She sounds mildly disappointed. “Go figure. Well, we’re here, so get one of the guards to point you in the general direction of Jorrvaskr if you’re interested in a day or so. Farkas, Ria, let’s go.” They head inside the city, leaving Ja’kir standing there awkwardly for a little too long.

“So,” one of the guards says after a while, crossing his arms and eyeing Ja’kir suspiciously, “you going to come in, or…?”Ja’kir nods.

“Um, yes,” Ja’kir says. “Maybe. Please?” The other guard shakes his head, and Ja’kir’s heart sinks.

“Official business only, by order of the Jarl,” says the second guard. He’s taller than the first, but not by much. “Rorikstead’s over that way.” Ja’kir flattens his ears against his head, and tries to think of something.

“Wait,” he says after a moment, frowning, “they were official business? How?” The second guard’s hand goes to his sword, and Ja’kir barely stops himself from going for his daggers.

“Show some respect, Khajiit,” the second guard says, much more harshly than before. “They happen to be part of the Companions. Elite warriors, they are. You couldn’t find a better group anywhere!” Ja’kir nods quickly.

“Right,” Ja’kir agrees. “So, can Ja- can I go inside?” Both guards shake their heads, almost at the same time, and what little hope Ja’kir’s mustered up dissipates.

“Sorry,” the first guard says, “but official business only. On account of what happened at Helgen.” Ja’kir’s eyes widen. He thinks he just found his opening.

“Yes, Helgen,” Ja’kir agrees. “I bring, uh, news. Of Helgen. To the Jarl.” The second guard scoffs, and Ja’kir tries not to look hostile, or threatening. Not that he looks very threatening to begin with.

“You? Bring news?” The second guard sounds doubtful, and for good reason. Ja'kir isn't a very smooth talker, to say the least. “Yeah, right. More likely you just want in.” Well, he isn't wrong… Ja’kir lashes his tail nervously, and takes a deep breath. He has to get in. He has to.

“I was at Helgen,” Ja’kir insists, determined to prove this. “The Legion had captured Ulfric Stormcloak, and were about to execute him. Then a dragon attacked. He escaped in the chaos.”

There's silence, except for the chirping of crickets. It's almost dark out, and Ja’kir does not want to be stuck on the wrong side of Whiterun’s walls overnight when there are things like giants and whatever 'hagravens' are roaming about. He definitely doesn't have enough time to get back to Riverwood before night sets in.

“A dragon, eh?” The shorter guard repeats incredulously. “Well, either you’re full of shit or you're telling the truth.” Ja’kir scowls.

“If I was lying, I'd make it a lot more believable,” Ja’kir mutters slowly. At this point, he's rather desperate. “So… please.” Neither of the guards speak for a moment. The shorter one looks to the other, as does Ja’kir.

“Well, I… blast,” the taller guard murmurs. “Fine. Go on in. Cause any trouble, and I’ll haul you into the Dragonsreach dungeons myself.” He unlocks the gate, and Ja’kir wastes no time in dashing inside.

The next morning, Ja’kir asks around. He gets his fair share of species-related insults, but he gets some actual information, too, and that makes everything else worth it. He figures out several things from this that he figures he should probably pay attention to.

One, the Jarl of the hold is named Balgruuf the Greater, he’s surprisingly reasonable when it comes to non-Nords, and he lives in the palace called Dragonsreach, at the top of the city. Apparently said palace was initially built to capture a dragon, although Ja’kir doubts it could hold the one at Helgen. That one was… nasty, to say the least. Huge, too. Ja’kir swears he heard it yell something, actually, but he doesn’t really want to think about that, or Helgen. Not now.

Two, the Companions are apparently a big deal throughout Skyrim. They apparently go back to the ‘Five Hundred Companions of Ysgramor’, and Ja’kir makes a mental note to look into this more at some point, because it seems pretty interesting. They’re based in this building called Jorrvaskr, which is, to quote one of the guards, ‘the building that looks like it has an upside-down ship on top and is pretty much impossible to miss.’

Three, most if not all of the guards in Whiterun were originally adventurers but became guards after taking an arrow to the knee. Ja’kir wonders about this, because maybe he should be worried about a bandit shooting knees, or maybe they’re all just really unlucky. On the other hand, Ja’kir’s pretty sure someone with that kind of injury shouldn’t be able to walk, nevermind guard a city, but maybe he’s missing something. Maybe it’s an inside joke between all or some of them.

Keeping all this in mind, Ja’kir figures the first thing he should do is head up to Dragonsreach and attempt to talk to the Jarl about… how had Ralof’s sister phrased it? Tell the Jarl what happened. Leaving out certain details, of course. Ja’kir could do that, probably. Hopefully. And after that…? After that, with any luck, he’ll be free to do what he wants.

As he heads up, towards what he assumes is Dragonsreach, he glances over at what has to be Jorrvaskr. It definitely looks the way the guard described it, and Ja’kir can’t help but wonder if it was built that way or if the supposed boat on top was once an actual functional boat. His gaze lingers longingly, but he forces himself to look away, and he heads up, towards his current objective.

This one can stop in there after he does what he’s supposed to, Ja’kir tells himself sternly. It’s not like they’d seriously want a Khajiit, anyway. Despite that, he dares to hope. As he climbs the steps, he glances back again, and his gaze finds the building - Jorrvaskr - again. He can see behind it now, and as he looks on, a pair of warriors fight with their fists behind the building. They exchange blow for blow, strike for strike, and Ja’kir stops just to watch them. He can’t see closely enough to recognize either of them, but one looks an awful lot like the red-headed archer - Aela, he remembers - and he doesn’t recognize the other.

He watches, almost in a trance, as Aela manages to get the other guy, who’s twice her size, in a headlock. They laugh, Ja’kir can hear it from where he is, and she eventually lets go. It’s only then that it dawns on Ja’kir that they weren’t actually fighting, not really. They were… sparring? Ja’kir thinks that’s the right word, anyway. He supposes that if he’s determined to become a Companion, he needs to know the terminology.

Ja’kir takes a deep breath, tears himself away, and reluctantly continues up to Dragonsreach. Nobody questions him, a Khajiit, just walking up to the doors and walking on in, and he eventually realizes it’s because of his helmet. It makes his ears hurt, sure, but if it can stop people from staring… although maybe it’s because he looks more confident than he is. After all, his tail's still sticking out the back of the armor.

He isn’t confident at all.

“Halt!”

Ja’kir freezes, and with good reason. When someone yells for you to halt in that tone of voice, you tend to halt. He figures pretty quickly that the person yelling is a dark elf, a Dunmer, and she looks pissed. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, but… well, it’s too late now.

“What’s the meaning of this interruption?” The Dunmer asks carefully, and Ja’kir sees her hand go not-so-subtly to her sword. “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.” Ja’kir gulps, tries not to panic, and panics anyway.

“J- I, uh. I have news from Helgen,” Ja’kir says quickly, trying not to imagine all the painful ways this clearly trained warrior can kill him. Once again, he fails. “About the dragon attack.” The Dunmer raises an eyebrow.

“You know about Helgen?”

Ja’kir nods quickly. “Ja- I was there.”

“The Jarl will want to speak to you personally,” she concludes. “Well, come on then. Try anything and you’ll be dead within moments.” Ja’kir gulps, but nods, and follows the Dunmer. He wonders if everyone in Skyrim is this hostile to everyone else, or if it’s just him. With his luck, it’s just him.

There’s several people around at the end of the hall, and although they all look pretty important, Ja’kir figures the old Nord sitting in his throne must be the Jarl. He… doesn’t look anything like Ja’kir imagined him, although he’s willing to bet he’s got a few tricks up his sleeves. Old people always do.

“Kneel,” the Dunmer hisses into his ear. “Show some respect, Khajiit.” Ja’kir quickly does so, because he really doesn’t want this to turn into a fight anytime soon, or at all. The Jarl eventually clears his throat, and Ja’kir scrambles to his feet.

“So,” the Jarl murmurs, staring him down, “you were at Helgen? You saw the dragon with your own eyes?” Ja’kir nods quickly, takes a deep breath, and lets the words come out.

“Yes, I had a great view while the Imperials were trying to cut off my head,” Ja’kir says, then realizes that maybe, just maybe, he screwed up. Big-time. The Jarl looks stunned, the Dunmer looks ready to attack, and the assorted other people around look even more shocked.

“J-I didn’t do anything,” he adds hastily. “Wrong place at the wrong time.” Ja’kir knows full well he couldn’t lie about this if he tried, but he realizes rather grimly that the Jarl doesn’t, and neither does the Dunmer. This just keeps getting worse and worse.

“Really? You’re certainly… forthright about your criminal past,” the Jarl murmurs. Ja’kir flattens his ears against his head, or he would have if they weren’t crammed underneath a helmet that definitely wasn’t made for Khajiit use. He makes a mental note to take said helmet off and give his ears a break at some point. After all, it isn’t like he needs a helmet in the middle of a city, right? It isn't like... someone's just going to come out of nowhere and try to kill him, right?

Okay, the helmet's staying on.

His ears still hurt though.

“I couldn’t lie about this if I tried,” Ja’kir says quietly. “The only thing this one did wrong was cross over from Cyrodiil, and J-I would have thought the Empire would have had better things to worry about than me, like the Stormcloaks.” The Jarl nods.

“Yes, one would think that,” Balgruuf murmurs, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me. What exactly went down in Helgen?” Ja’kir gulps. He really doesn’t want to remember this, but he remembers it regardless. The dust, the smoke, the giant black dragon reducing the majority of the town to rubble within a matter of minutes…

“The Imperials were going to execute Ulfric Stormcloak, and several of the other Stormcloaks,” Ja’kir says finally. “This one… I was next to be executed. If the dragon had shown up any later, I wouldn’t be here now. It destroyed Helgen. If it showed up here… I don’t know if you would be able to stop it.” Ja’kir takes a deep breath, then another one, and then realizes that all eyes are on him. He wishes their attention was anywhere else.

“By the gods,” Balgruuf exclaims, after a moment, “Irileth was right!” The Dunmer nods respectfully, the beginnings of a smile forming on her lips.

“Of course I was,” she says, eyeing the Jarl with something akin to amusement. “I’m always right.” Ja’kir takes note of the fact that her name is Irileth, and that she and the Jarl are close, clearly. He wonders what’s going on there, if anything. Probably not.

“Well done,” the Jarl says finally, to Ja’kir, and it takes him a moment to figure out he’s being spoken to. “You sought me out, on your own initiative. You’ve done Whiterun a service, and I won’t forget it. If there’s anything I or my court can do for you…” Ja’kir thinks on this for a moment, then shakes his head.

“Thank you, though,” Ja’kir says automatically, but he means it. He bows awkwardly, and then turns to leave.

“Wait,” Balgruuf says, causing Ja’kir to glance back, and hope he hadn’t screwed up too badly. “What is your name, stranger?” Ja’kir gives himself a moment, making sure he doesn’t answer with a different name, one that he used to answer to, one that no longer has meaning for him, or at the very least shouldn't have any meaning left. The Khajiit who answered to that name... he died with Aless.

“Ja’kir,” the Khajiit supplies, and with that, he leaves.

Nobody stops him this time, and once Ja’kir is well away from Dragonsreach, he sits down on a conveniently-placed bench, removes his helmet, and rubs his ears. They’re even more sore now, although Ja’kir suspects they won’t get any better if - no, when - he slips his helmet back on. Right now, though, he needs to think, and his ears need a break. It isn't like someone's just going to come out of nowhere and try to kill him.

What he wants now is simple: he wants to go to Jorrvaskr. He wants to join the Companions. Even as he rests on the bench, he glances over at Jorrvaskr more often than he probably should. But… the real question is if he’s ready. If he’s even cut out for this.

By now, it’s been made quite clear that the Companions are a band of warriors. Ja’kir isn’t a fighter. Or, at the very least, he wasn’t. Now, though… now, he doesn’t really know. He sighs, unsheathes one of his daggers, and stares at it, or more specifically his reflection in it.

Ja’kir looks at himself, and he sees a bedraggled Khajiit with matted tan fur, impossibly messy dark hair, and a surprisingly battle-hardened gaze. That gaze is what looks back at Ja’kir, looks him in the eyes and tells him what he needs to do. He needs to go to Jorrvaskr. He needs to at least try.

How many have tried, and failed? Ja’kir wonders. How many of them were Khajiit?

He stares at himself a few moments longer, before sighing, sheathing the dagger, and standing up. His decision’s made. He won’t be going to Jorrvaskr, not yet. Perhaps not ever. Probably not ever. He's... he's not ready.

“Excuse me, mister Khajiit?” Someone asks. Ja’kir glances to the right, and he sees a girl. A child. She’s an Imperial, but she’s not with the Empire, clearly, and her eyes carry a weight no one of her age should have to carry. Ja'kir knows that look. She's seen someone close to her die. “Could you spare a few septims?” Ja’kir finds himself nodding almost immediately, and rummages around in his bag.

“Gladly,” Ja’kir says, passing her more than a few. “Stay safe.” The girl nods, but doesn’t move to leave. Instead, she takes a seat next to Ja’kir on the bench after a few moments, causing him to look over in surprise.

“Are you going to join the Companions?” She asks. Ja’kir freezes. “I think you’d make a good one, mister Khajiit.” Ja’kir opens his mouth, then closes it. He can’t think of a halfway coherent response, so he just lets himself talk. Probably not the best idea. The last time he did that, speaking without thinking, he basically told the Jarl that he was to be executed at Helgen. Really great idea there, telling the person in charge that he's a criminal.

“Really?” Ja’kir says finally. “Why?” The girl shrugs.

“You’re a fighter, but you’re not with the Empire, or the Stormcloaks, and you’re not a guard,” she says. “You could be a mercenary, I guess, but mercenaries don’t spare me a glance. The Companions are nice. If they’re not too busy, they’ll always give me a spare septim or two.”

Ja’kir nods, and looks at the girl again. He can't help but notice how thin she is, how tattered her clothes are, and his heart goes out to her.

“So… you really think I'd be a good Companion?” Ja’kir asks. The girl nods, and grins. With that, Ja’kir gets up, filled with a new resolve. “Alright. Thank you. I needed that, uh…”

“Lucia,” the girl supplies cheerfully. Ja’kir nods.

“Ja’kir,” he says. “And thank you, Lucia. Really.” With that, he slips his helmet back on and starts towards Jorrvaskr, determined to at least try. If he fails… well, then he figures that’ll be the end of it. But if he succeeds…

Right as Ja’kir opens the door and heads in, right as he crosses the point of no return, he realizes he has no idea what he even has to do to join the Companions.

This one is screwed.

Chapter 6: That Was Easy (That Wasn't Easy)

Summary:

In which joining the Companions proves to be both simpler than Ja'kir ever expected, and much, much harder.

It only gets worse from here. So, yeah, he's screwed.

In other news, yes he is the Dragonborn, and yes that will be happening soon. It'll be great, maybe not so much for Ja'kir.

As it turns out, the inside of Jorrvaskr is ten times more intimidating than the outside. It also seems significantly bigger on the inside, although not ten times as much. There are people all over the place, people who Ja’kir doesn’t doubt could kill him in at least sixty different ways without even breaking a sweat. He doesn’t see anyone he recognizes, which is terrifying enough in itself.

Two of the Companions - at least, he figures they’re Companions, either that or he has the wrong building - are fighting. Or maybe they’re sparring. The two of them certainly don’t seem friendly towards each other, though, and as Ja’kir watches, the Nord gets her opponent, a Dunmer, in a sort of headlock and doesn’t let go until her opponent crumples to the ground, passed out. At least, Ja’kir hopes he’s passed out.

“Can I help you?”

Ja’kir nearly leaps out of his fur. Instead, he turns to face the guy who’s spoken. He’s an older warrior, clearly, battle-scarred and all, and if the rest of the Companions could kill him in at least sixty different ways without breaking a sweat, this Nord alone could probably kill him in at least seventy, maybe eighty. Ja’kir scrambles for something good to say, or at least coherent. He would settle for coherent at this point.

“Um. Yes,” Ja’kir stammers. He lashes his tail anxiously, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He takes a deep breath. “How do I join the Companions?” The man he’s talking to raises an eyebrow, like he thinks he’s joking. Ja’kir isn’t joking.

“Well, lucky for you that’s not up to me to decide,” the old Nord says at last. “Talk to Kodlak. He’s down there somewhere-” He gestures to a set of stairs heading down (underground?) with an unreadable expression. “-and you’ll know him when you find him.” Ja’kir nods.

“Thank you,” Ja’kir says quietly, but the man he was talking to has already turned away. Ja’kir takes the hint and doesn't keep trying. Instead, he heads down the stairs and into the depths of the place.

As it happens, Ja’kir doesn't particularly like being underground, but that doesn't matter. He can hear voices, and voices means people, and hopefully one of those people is the Kodlak person he needs to find. He draws closer, and turns the corner.

“I’m telling you,” a Nord who looks an awful lot like Farkas continues, “it's getting harder and harder to- who do you think you are!?” Ja’kir flinches under the man’s glare, and takes a step back.

“This… I'm sorry, I'll go, I'm sorry,” Ja’kir says quietly, inching away. “Sorry…”

“Sorry?” The man repeats, getting up and moving to attack. “I’ll show you sorry!”

The other man, another much older Nord, the one who'd been listening, puts a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and shakes his head.

“Vilkas, peace,” the older man says. “If he wanted a fight, he would have gotten it with the others.” Ja’kir looks between them, honestly rather terrified. At least the aggressive guy - Vilkas, if Ja’kir heard the old man right - seems less aggressive now, and more wary.

“Look at him! He's a Khajiit,” Vilkas exclaims. “You know how they are!” Ja’kir visibly bristles.

“You don't see this one assuming every Nord is a barbarian who drinks the blood of his enemies with every meal,” Ja’kir spits. Vilkas glares at him, and although inwardly Ja’kir is still terrified, outwardly he meets Vilkas’s gaze. “Not every Khajiit is a thief. This one would- I would die before becoming one.”

“Both of you, stop it, now,” the old man orders. Ja’kir doesn't even know who this guy is, but he nods regardless. He moves his hand away from the dagger. “Vilkas, that was uncalled for.”

“Sorry,” Vilkas says, not sounding particularly sorry.

“Now, what or who are you looking for?” The old man asks, redirecting his attention to Ja’kir, who gulps.

“Uh… this one, I, uh, was told to find Kodlak, and directed down here,” Ja’kir manages. “Are you…?”

“Kodlak? Yes,” the old man, Kodlak, says. He leans back in his chair, fixing his gaze on Ja’kir. “What can I do for you?” He seems interested more than anything else, which is probably a good sign, even though Ja'kir really isn't all that interesting.

“This one wants to join the Companions,” Ja’kir says quickly, then corrects himself, “I want to join the Companions.” Kodlak nods, and studies Ja’kir, who tries his best not to fidget too much.

“You do, do you?” Kodlak asks after a moment. Ja’kir nods a little too quickly, and meets the old man’s gaze. “Hm… a certain strength of spirit, perhaps...” Ja’kir would be glad he's not just saying no right away, except Vilkas looks ready to begin rioting.

“You can't seriously be considering this,” Vilkas protests, but a look from Kodlak silences him. The old man leans forward, and holds Ja’kir’s gaze.

“Tell me, why do you wish to join our number?”

Ja’kir takes a deep breath, then another, and thinks on this for some time. When he answers, he needs it to be the right one.

“Because this one- I want to learn how to be like you,” the Khajiit says quietly, and from then on the words spill out. “This one didn't grow up in Skyrim. I didn't even know you existed until yesterday. But you, the Companions, you’re warriors but you’re… more than warriors. If that makes sense. And I didn't grow up a fighter, but… this one wants, I want to be a part of this. I want to learn how to fight.” When he’s finished, Ja’kir takes a deep breath, and slowly lets it out.

Ja’kir’s fully expecting to be unceremoniously told that he can't join. He's cringing at how much he screwed up while saying those things, and probably Kodlak thinks he's an idiot now, and he’ll be back out on his own and-

“What is your name?” Kodlak asks finally. There's something in his gaze Ja’kir can't quite identify, and he's not sure he would want to, even if he could. Despite this...

“Ja’kir,” the Khajiit says, and then adds, unnecessarily, “my name is Ja’kir.” Kodlak nods, then turns to the other guy. Vilkas. Ja’kir’s hoping he heard the guy’s name right.

“Vilkas, take Ja’kir out to the training yard and see what he can do,” Kodlak orders, with a certain steely determination in his eyes that makes Vilkas nod automatically. “See what you think of him.” Vilkas nods again, and moves to leave.

“Well, come on, then,” Vilkas mutters, glancing back at Ja’kir like he couldn't care less, which is probably true. “I don't have all day.” Ja’kir nods quickly, still in disbelief that the Companions - the Companions - are actually giving him a chance. He does his best to keep up with Vilkas, and by the time they're out in the surprisingly-deserted training yard, he's pretty winded. Vilkas isn't.

“What now?” Ja’kir asks, trying not to sound like he's winded. Judging by the look Vilkas shoots him, he's not doing a very good job. Despite this, Vilkas cracks his neck and gets into a fighting stance, sans the sword.

“Take a few swings at me, so I can see your form,” Vilkas says lightly, like this sort of thing is normal. Well, it probably is. “I can take it.” Ja’kir nods slowly, and matches Vilkas’s stance as closely as he can.

“Got it,” Ja’kir says, attempting to match Vilkas’s easy tone, but before he can do anything Vilkas holds up a finger to stop.

“With your weapons,” Vilkas adds. Ja’kir stops in his tracks.

“You're crazy,” Ja’kir says. Vilkas shakes his head slowly.

“No, I’m not,” Vilkas objects. “How am I supposed to see how you fight if you don't fight the way you do normally?” He's got a point. He really does. And yet…

“How do you know I don't just fight hand to hand?” Ja’kir tries. “Maybe this one fights hand to hand normally.” Vilkas raises an eyebrow.

“Nice try, but no, you don't,” he says bluntly. “You wouldn't carry dual daggers like that otherwise. Not the greatest choice in my opinion, but if it works that's fine.” Ja’kir nods, unsheathes them, and hesitates.

“Are you... sure about this?” Ja’kir asks. “What if-?” Vilkas groans.

“Knowing when you need to show some restraint is what sets the good apart from the great, and some never learn,” Vilkas growls. He bangs a gloved fist against his chestplate. “But that's why I’m wearing this. Show me what you've got.”

Ja’kir takes a deep breath, nods, and charges. He's careful not to go for anywhere Vilkas’s armor doesn't cover, but he still strikes hard, and fast, and tries again and again and again, until...

“Alright, that's enough,” Vilkas says finally, taking a step back. Ja’kir nods, sheathing his daggers. “Your choice in weapons is questionable, and although you’re certainly not lacking in speed and power, your technique is atrocious. Who taught you how to fight?” Ja’kir gulps.

“This one is- I’m, uh. Self-taught,” Ja’kir admits. Vilkas rolls his eyes.

“Thought so. Your footwork is basically nonexistent, those daggers are in desperate need of sharpening, and you’re not anywhere near as aggressive as you need to be if you don't want to get yourself killed. Other than that…” Vilkas pauses, thinking on this for a moment. “Other than that, you’re not bad.”

“Really?” Ja’kir perks up instantly. “Does that mean…?” Vilkas glances at him, and although Ja’kir’s pretty sure he imagined it, he thinks he can see the very smallest of smiles. Vilkas is back to his regular scowl once Ja’kir blinks, so maybe he did imagine it.

“It means we might give you a chance,” Vilkas says, “so don't get too excited.” Ja’kir nods, but he can't stop himself from grinning if he tries, so he doesn't.

“Not excited, got it,” Ja’kir says quickly. “Right. What now?” Vilkas thinks on this for a moment, then unbuckles his sword.

“Take this up to Eorlund to get sharpened,” Vilkas says, passing Ja’kir the sword. “And be careful, it's probably worth more than you are.” Ja’kir stares at him incredulously.

“What?” Ja’kir manages, still in shock.

“Are you deaf? I said, take this up to Eorlund,” Vilkas orders. “Eorlund Gray-Mane? Best blacksmith in Skyrim?” Ja’kir shakes his head slowly.

“This one is- I'm from Cyrodiil,” Ja’kir reminds him. Vilkas groans. “Sorry…”

“You see the guy up there?” Vilkas tries again, and points. Ja’kir looks where he's pointing, and nods. “That's Eorlund. Now get going.” Ja’kir glances between Vilkas, where he's supposed to go, and the sword, still confused.

“This one… what?”

“Look,” Vilkas mutters, “do you want to join the Companions or not? You can't just waltz in here and ask to join. So get going, whelp. I don't have all day.”

Ja’kir visibly bristles, but nods. As he heads up the steps, he decides he doesn't like Vilkas. Not right now, anyway. Definitely not now.

“What can I do for you?”

Ja’kir realizes too late that he's reached the top of the steps, and that this ‘Eorlund Gray-Mane’ guy is talking to him. He gulps.

“This one- I, uh,” Ja’kir stammers, holding out the sword, “got sent with… um…”

“Vilkas sent you to get his sword sharpened,” Eorlund concludes. Ja’kir nods. “Fine. Give it here.” Ja’kir gladly passes it over, and as he watches, Eorlund sets it down next to a new-looking shield.

“You’re not going to sharpen it?” Ja’kir asks. Eorlund nods. “Why not?”

“Well, Vilkas might be a part of the Circle, but he's an ass to anyone new,” Eorlund says without skipping a beat. Ja’kir opens his mouth, then closes it. “He doesn't even use this sword. He only keeps it around to screw with new people like you.” Ja’kir nods, then freezes.

“Wait,” Ja’kir manages, “how did you know-?” Eorlund laughs.

“Only someone new to the Companions would agree to that,” Eorlund says, leaning back on the rock shelf he’s using for storage. “Besides, I'm about finished for the day. I’m not sharpening anything now. Got any questions, though, I can probably answer them.” Ja’kir nods.

“Are you a Companion?” Ja’kir asks, taking a seat on an unoccupied part of the rock shelf, letting his tail curl behind him. Eorlund grins, and shakes his head. “You… wait, what?”

“Technically, I'm not a Companion, though my brother is, or was,” Eorlund says with a shrug. “Haven’t seen him take on any jobs for years, so I’m going with was. As it happens, not a one of the actual Companions can smith to save their lives, so that’s what I’m here for.” Ja’kir nods. Vilkas might be, according to Eorlund, an ass - and Ja’kir’s inclined to agree with him - but he thinks he likes Eorlund.The other old man, Kodlak, was nice too. He wonders if the people he fought the giant with are around anywhere.

“So Vilkas always send newcomers on errands?” Ja’kir asks. Eorlund cracks a grin.

“Sure does,” Eorlund says. “As I said, kid’s an ass, but he’s decent most of the time. Don’t worry too much about it. They were all whelps once, they just don’t like to talk about it. Remember, nobody rules anybody in the Companions.”

Ja’kir nods, then thinks on this. “Wait… how does that work? No one’s in charge or anything?” Eorlund shakes his head.

“Not sure how they’ve managed it, but they have,” Eorlund confirms. “No leaders since Ysgramor. Kodlak is the Harbinger, and he’s a sort of advisor for the whole group, but everyone makes his own decisions, or her own decisions.” Ja’kir nods, and tries to think of something else to ask that won’t reveal how dumb he is.

“That’s actually really cool,” Ja’kir says. “So… anyone else this one should know? I mean… anyone else I should know?” Eorlund shrugs, yawns, and stretches.

“Well, there’s the Circle. They give out jobs and things,” Eorlund says, “at least I think that’s how it goes. Vilkas is on it. So’s Farkas, and Skjor, and Aela.” Ja’kir perks up instantly. He recognizes at least three of those names, even if he doesn’t particularly like Vilkas.

“Vilkas is an ass, but if it really comes down to it, he’ll have your back,” Eorlund continues. “He’s a good kid. So’s his brother, although his brother’s a lot nicer to begin with.” Ja’kir nods.

“Vilkas has a brother?” Ja’kir asks. Eorlund nods.

“Farkas,” he says, and quite a few things, not least of which is how much those two look alike, finally make sense. “The two of them are twins. Practically grew up in Jorrvaskr, although they’re almost as different as you can get. If you ever just need to talk to someone, Farkas is your man. Kid’s got a heart of gold.”

“Okay,” Ja’kir agrees, hoping Eorlund will keep talking. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, he’s an old man, and old men love talking. Old women, too, but that’s beside the point.

“Skjor has been with the Companions longer than anyone else, except Kodlak and my brother, and my brother doesn’t fight anymore,” Eorlund continues. “He’s a good man, although you don’t want to get him angry. Trust me on that.” Ja’kir decides to listen to Eorlund. He probably knows what’s up. He’s been here for a while.

“And Aela?” Ja’kir prompts. “What about her?” Eorlund shrugs.

“She’s… interesting,” Eorlund says quietly. “A bit more of a… lone wolf, if you get my meaning.” He grins, like this is some sort of joke, and Ja’kir doesn’t get it.

“Okay,” Ja’kir agrees, pretending that he gets it. He still doesn’t get it, and he’s pretty sure Eorlund knows that perfectly well.

“Anyway, speaking of Aela, can you do me a favor and bring this down to her?” Eorlund asks, hefting the shield like it’s nothing and passing it to Ja’kir. He makes the mistake of assuming it weighs nothing, and nearly falls over from the sheer weight of it. “I would do it myself, but… my wife is in mourning, and I need to get back to her. Our son…”

Ja’kir sees the shadow of grief pass over the blacksmith’s face, and he nods quickly.

“Yeah,” Ja’kir agrees. “I got it. No problem. This one’ll take it to her… uh. Where do you think she’ll be?” Eorlund thinks on this a moment.

“This time of day… probably in Jorrvaskr. Companions don’t like to miss meals, and neither do I… I should get going. Feel free to come up if you get too lost in the future.”

Eorlund nods to the sun, which is slowly inching closer and closer to the horizon. Ja’kir’s eyes widen. He nods to Eorlund, manages what he hopes passes for a goodbye, and lugs the shield down the steps. It’s heavy. Really heavy. He wonders how anyone can manage it, because he barely can.

With a grunt, he shoves open the door, nearly dropping the shield as he does so. Ja’kir looks around. It doesn't take him long to spot Aela’s messy red hair on the other side of the building, and he heads over. She’s talking with the man who gave Ja’kir directions when he first came in, and they both look over as Ja’kir approaches, swearing profusely under his breath.

“Eorlund sent this,” Ja’kir gasps out, dropping the shield. It clatters to the ground louder than Ja’kir would have liked, and Aela picks it up almost as effortlessly as Eorlund had. Ja’kir would have glared at her, but he definitely didn't have the energy right now. “How can you just-?” Words fail him, so he gestures to the shield. Aela smirks.

“Practice, mostly, but as it turns out, using a bow tends to build your upper body strength,” Aela says with more than a bit of amusement in her voice. She examines it, then sets it aside. “So, Kodlak let you in? Skjor, pay up.” The older guy - Skjor, apparently, scowls.

“I didn't think the warrior who helped you with the giant was a Khajiit, otherwise I wouldn't have taken that bet,” Skjor mutters as he passes a few septims Aela’s way, eyeing Ja’kir suspiciously. “We’ll see how good you really are soon enough. Doesn't take a lot to impress Aela here, after all.” Aela glares at Skjor with a ferocity in her eyes that would make Ja’kir run like hell, but he doesn't even seem bothered.

“Go jump in a skeever-hole, Skjor,” Aela mutters. Ja’kir gulps, and wonders, not for the first time, if he's maybe in over his head.

“Vilkas said J- he said I wasn't too bad,” Ja’kir manages, tail twitching anxiously. “If that counts for anything?” Skjor shrugs.

“He's not easy to impress,” Skjor admits, “but anyway. Did someone show you where you’re sleeping yet, or…?” Ja’kir shakes his head, and Aela sighs.

“Guess we'd better fix that, then,” Aela mutters, then glances up and looks around. “Farkas!” Ja’kir recognizes the warrior that lumbers over, and he remembers that he and Vilkas are twins. They look alike, from what Ja’kir can tell they fight somewhat similarly, but that seems to be where the similarities end.

“You… did call me, right?” Farkas asks, looking confused. Ja’kir glances to Aela, then Skjor, and figures it must be some sort of inside joke. Skjor probably wouldn't look amused then.

“No, you're hearing things,” Aela says with a straight face, staring Farkas down. Farkas looks like he's about to panic when Aela finally cracks a sly grin. “Of course I called you, ice-brain. You remember Ja’kir from earlier, right?” Farkas nods.

“What's he doing here?” Farkas asks, prompting a groan from Aela. “Never mind. I’ll, uh, just-”

“Kodlak decided he'd make a good Companion,” Aela says flatly, “so any chance you could show him where the rest of the whelps bunk?” Farkas nods.

“Got it. This way,” Farkas says, turns, and heads down the stairs. Ja’kir follows him down, through a short maze of corridors, and to a rather large room with quite a few empty beds in it. Before Farkas enters, he glances back at Ja’kir. “I'm sorry, what's your name again? I’m… not good with names.” Ja’kir nods, understanding perfectly.

“Ja’kir,” he says. “You’re Farkas, right?” Farkas looks as relieved as Ja’kir feels. He nods.

“The one and only,” Farkas agrees, then lowers his voice. “Try and make friends with some of the other whelps, alright? They’ll explain what you haven't heard already.” He raps on the wall next to the door, then heads in. Ja’kir follows him, and looks around. The room he would have sworn was empty actually is anything but. There's a dark elf passed out in one of the bunks, a Nord with a bottle of mead who looks to be going that way, and a pair of girls - one Nord, one Imperial - playing some sort of card game on a blanket stolen from one of the spare beds.

Farkas clears his throat, and everyone except the dark elf glances his way, although the drunk Nord’s reaction is delayed significantly.

“This is the new kid, his name’s Ja’kir, be nice to him, and don't miss dinner,” Farkas says gruffly, looking pointedly at the drunk Nord. “That goes for everyone but Athis.” The Nord girl frowns.

“So Athis gets a pass on being mean, but I don't?” She asks. “Really?” Farkas groans.

“Njada, you know what I mean,” he says finally. “Don't kill each other.” With that, Farkas leaves, and Ja’kir is this close to going with him when the Imperial girl catches his eye and grins. Actually, she looks vaguely familiar.

“Hey, you made it,” she says cheerfully. “Remember me?” Ja’kir nods even as he's not actually sure.

“Um, yes,” Ja’kir manages awkwardly as he scours his brain for the girl’s name. “It's… Ria, right?” Ria nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah! I'm Ria, this is Njada, drunk guy is Torvar, and the guy passed out over there is Athis.”

Ja’kir nods, and takes a deep breath. “J- I’m. Ja’kir.” If Ria notices his inner terror, she doesn't say anything, and he's so, so grateful for that. He takes another deep breath, lets it out, and takes a seat on the blanket next to her. “What are you playing?”

“War,” Njada says curtly. “It's only two players.” Ja’kir nods, and makes a mental note not to cross her in the future. If he remembers correctly, it was her and Athis who were fighting when he first came in, and she's most likely the reason he's currently passed out.

“Fine by me, this one- I don't know how to play,” Ja’kir admits. His tail curls behind him. “So… how long do we have?” Njada answers again, this time with a shrug, leaving Ria to give a better answer.

“Few minutes, long enough for at least one more game,” Ria says, glancing Njada’s way with an eager glint in her eyes. “Njada, you’re going down!” Njada actually smiles, ever so slightly, and only for a moment or two.

“We’ll see about that,” Njada says, laying down her first card. Ria does the same, and Njada’s eyes go wide. “Shit.”

In the end, Ria wins by a considerable margin, and Torvar has to be forcibly dragged out by Njada, who’s significantly stronger than she looks.

Ja’kir unnecessarily reminds himself to never, ever piss Njada off if he values his life or what little pride he has.

Chapter 7: Draugr and Werewolf Hunters (and a Werewolf)

Summary:

Ja'kir heads off to Dustman's Cairn with Farkas to find a Shard of Wuuthrad, but when things take a turn for the worse, he's definitely in for the shock of his life...

Or: Ja'kir finds out Farkas is a werewolf and is surprisingly okay with it once he has some time to think on this. He'll make a good werewolf... werecat? Don't question how a Khajiit can become a werewolf, please. You'll have plenty of time for that in a few chapters.

Over the next few weeks, Ja’kir settles into life as a Companion. He's still learning, and he suspects he will be for some time, but he's definitely getting better, somewhat. Maybe. He can at least hold his own against some of the others now, which Ja’kir privately considers an accomplishment. He knows no one else does, though. They all started out as warriors, or at least that’s what Ja’kir thinks.

“Hey,” Farkas greets suddenly as Ja’kir passes by on his way to the relative peace and quiet of the sleeping quarters. “Got a minute?” The Khajiit nods, and takes a seat next to Farkas. He lets his tail curl behind him and tries to keep from fidgeting.

“Uh, sure,” Ja’kir manages awkwardly, “what's up?” Farkas shrugs.

“Not much, really,” Farkas says. “Look, just thought you might want a heads up, your Trial is probably tomorrow.” Ja’kir looks at him blankly.

“My… what?”

“Well,” Farkas shrugs, “it's like a regular job except one of the Circle goes with you to observe, make sure you’re honorable and all that. Then you’re officially a Companion.” Ja’kir perks up instantly.

“Oh, okay,” Ja’kir says, significantly less confused. “So mine’s tomorrow?” Farkas nods.

“I'm going with you,” Farkas agrees. “Meet me outside at first light tomorrow and we’ll be heading out. My brother can give you the details.” Ja’kir tries not to wince.

“Right,” Ja’kir says uncomfortably. He doesn’t move to leave, and neither does Farkas. Eventually, he takes a deep breath, and continues, “so… why is your brother… like he is?” Ja’kir isn’t about to straight-up tell Farkas that his brother is honestly kind of mean, but he thinks he gets the message. Farkas shrugs.

“He’ll warm up to you eventually, just give him time,” Farkas says, and smiles slightly. “He doesn’t trust people easily, but believe me, there’s no one I’d rather have fighting by my side.” Ja’kir nods, although he’s not entirely sure Farkas is right about his brother… well, they are twins, but still. He opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it.

“Alright,” Ja’kir says, and gets up. He gulps. “Do you think… part of why he doesn’t like this one- part of why he doesn’t like me-”

“It’s not because you’re a Khajiit,” Farkas interrupts. “He’s been like this with every new Companion I can remember.” Ja’kir nods, and wonders, not for the first time, if Farkas is actually smarter than a lot of people give him credit for.

“Alright, thanks,” Ja’kir says. He nods awkwardly, and takes a step back. “Thank you. Uh… see you tomorrow?” Farkas nods.

“See you then,” Farkas agrees, and Ja’kir heads off to go find Vilkas. He’s out in the training yard, going over something with Ria, who… well, actually, Vilkas doesn’t seem quite as rude when he’s with her. Maybe Farkas is right, since after all, Ria was the newest member of the Companions until Ja’kir came along.

Ja’kir watches, silently, as Vilkas shows Ria how to stand. She copies his stance almost perfectly, and while Ja’kir definitely wouldn’t be getting away with anything less than perfection, Vilkas actually smiles at Ria as he corrects her, and says something he can’t quite make out. He can definitely make out her laughter, though.

Ja’kir leaves before either of the two notice him. He isn’t that desperate to know what he’ll be doing, and somehow he gets the feeling that this isn’t something he
should interrupt.

The next morning, at first light, Ja’kir heads out, and finds Farkas waiting for him. They leave Whiterun, and go west, carefully skirting around the giant camp nearby.

“You don't want to fight one if you don't have to,” Farkas says once they're far enough away, noticing Ja’kir’s confusion. “They're strong.” Ja’kir glances back at the nearest one. Considering that the giant’s club looks bigger than him, and said giant is holding it like it's nothing, calling it strong is like calling the Companions awesome. In other words, it's the understatement of the age.

“Right,” Ja’kir agrees, and not-so-discreetly moves so Farkas is between him and the giants. “So… this one didn't get a chance to ask Vilkas about what we were doing. He was… busy.” Farkas nods, and unless Ja’kir’s mistaken, he knows perfectly well why Vilkas was busy.

“We’re going to Dustman’s Cairn to look for a shard of Wuuthrad,” Farkas explains. Unfortunately, Ja’kir’s now even more confused. “Wuuthrad was Ysgramor’s axe.” Okay, Ja’kir’s definitely heard the name Ysgramor before. He thinks on this.

“Ysgramor was the original leader of the original Five Hundred Companions, right?” Ja’kir asks. Farkas nods. “Alright. So we’re looking for his axe. Let’s do this.”

“Part of his axe,” Farkas says.

“Right, part of his axe,” Ja’kir agrees. “How far away are we?”

Farkas shrugs.

As it happens, Dustman’s Cairn isn’t exactly close to Whiterun. It’s past midday when the two Companions finally make it there, and after taking a break to get a bite to eat, Ja’kir and Farkas head on in.

“So I’m supposed to be observing, to make sure you’re honorable,” Farkas says as they head in. “I’ll help you out if you need it. Try not to need it. I don’t want to carry you back to Jorrvaskr on my back.” Ja’kir nods, and unsheathes his daggers. Farkas grabs his greatsword.

“You won’t have to,” Ja’kir promises, even though he’s not sure he can keep that promise. “But thank you.” Farkas nods.

Beside Ja’kir, a Draugr rises from its coffin with vague mutterings in some ancient language, and he dispatches it quickly with a silent thank you to Vilkas. The guy might be an ass, but Ja’kir’s more than willing to admit that he’s improved by leaps and bounds since he started being trained by him. Besides, everyone else seems to like him.

Ja’kir heads deeper and deeper, bringing down the Draugr as they come. Farkas hangs back, and Ja’kir’s proud of the fact that he doesn’t need help. He’s a slashing whirlwind of death, or re-death, considering that the only things he’s fighting are Draugr. He’s actually getting the hang of this. He can fight. He’s a warrior, soon to be a Companion. He can fight. He can do this.

This one can do this, Ja’kir thinks proudly as he pulls a lever to open the door, only to turn around and find that he’s inadvertently trapped himself behind some sort of metal gate.

This one can’t do this.

“Um, Farkas?” He calls a little too quietly. The Nord doesn’t seem to hear him. He tries again, louder. “Farkas? Help? Please?” This time, he hears him, and when Farkas sees the situation Ja’kir’s gotten himself into, he looks almost amused.

“Now you’ve done it,” Farkas says solemnly, sheathing his greatsword, and Ja’kir would be either worried, intimidated, or both if it weren’t for the faint grin on his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll find the release. Just sit tight.” Ja’kir nods quickly.

“Thanks,” he says, and grins back. Farkas nods. Before he can say anything else, though, Ja’kir sees a flicker of movement behind him. His eyes go wide. “Farkas, look out!” Farkas whirls around, and pulls out his greatsword as at least four bandits come out of literally nowhere to surround him. He backs up against the bars, and Ja’kir unconsciously does the same behind them. He unsheathes his daggers, even as he knows he’ll be no help from where he is.

“It’s time to die, dog,” one of the bandits says darkly, and they all unsheath their weapons. One of them catches the light. Ja’kir freezes, and drops his own.

Silver.

Ja’kir backs up, and continues to do so. His tail’s between his legs. His ears are already flattened under his helmet, but they’d be flattened even if he wasn’t wearing one. For a moment, all he can remember is his old life, his old name, his old self…

He shakes his head, and tries to focus on what’s going on beyond his current prison. Four to one… Farkas might be strong, clearly is strong, but four against one is impossible odds for anyone, even him. Ja’kir needs to help him, he has to help him, and yet…

There’s nothing this one can do.

He can’t shoot, and even if he could, he doesn’t have a bow, and wouldn’t want to use it. He knows no magic. He could try throwing one of his daggers, but he’d be just as likely to hit Farkas as any of them. So Ja’kir watches helplessly as the bandits continue talking, knowing full well they’ve won, and flashing their silver weapons all over the place. Ja’kir visibly flinches every time one of them catches the light.

“We knew you’d be coming here,” another of the bandits says darkly. He hefts his weapon, a greatsword, a silver greatsword. Why does it have to be silver? “Your mistake, Companion.” One of his buddies frowns.

“Which one is that?”

Ja’kir watches in horror as they slowly edge closer and closer, like they have all the time in the world, which they do. They know it. Ja’kir knows it. Farkas knows it. Ja’kir tries to focus on Farkas, the bandits, the floor, the ceiling, anything but their weapons. Their silver weapons.

He fails, and by now he’s pressed against the wall, hissing quietly in their direction, and silently cursing the fact that silver weapons exist.

“It doesn’t matter. He wears that armor, he dies.”

That remark confuses Ja’kir more than anything. Nothing seems off about Farkas’ armor to him, it seems like a perfectly ordinary set of steel armor to him, but that’s just him. Maybe they can see something he doesn’t.

Then again, Farkas is about to die and there’s absolutely nothing Ja’kir can do about it.

“Killing you will make for an excellent story.”

Farkas glances back at Ja’kir, sees how terrified he is, and seems to make a decision. He mouths the word ‘sorry’, then returns his attention to the bandits, if they’re bandits. After all, none of the other bandits Ja’kir’s run into have had silver weapons, and why do these ones have to have silver weapons-

“None of you will be alive to tell it,” Farkas growls lowly, then drops his weapon. Ja’kir watches, terrified, as Farkas’s arms and legs grow longer, and his armor gives way to coarse black fur. The creature that used to be Farkas roars, and charges, sending two of the bandits flying just with his initial strike. Ja’kir’s heard stories about this sort of thing, but… but he never expected this.

Farkas is a werewolf, Ja’kir realizes as the creature, the werewolf, finishes off the last of the bandits and runs off to the left. The gate trapping Ja’kir lifts after a few moments, but he doesn’t move. He still doesn’t move when Farkas comes back, instead staring at the Nord, the werewolf with wide, terrified eyes.

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Farkas manages awkwardly. Ja’kir doesn’t move a muscle. Eventually, Farkas crouches in front of him, and Ja’kir still doesn’t move. “Look... are you okay?” Ja’kir stares at him, and tries to make his mouth work.

“You’re a werewolf,” Ja’kir whispers, and Farkas nods. “Divines, this one’s gotten himself in way over his head…” He looks at Farkas again, and sees a distinctly guilty look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like that,” Farkas says quietly. “If you need a moment…” Ja’kir nods gratefully, still trying to make sense of all this.

The Companions are werewolves.

The Companions. Are werewolves.

The. Companions. Are. Werewolves.

“Are you going to make me a werewolf?” He asks in a small voice. Farkas shakes his head, and Ja’kir isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed. Maybe a mix of both.

“Oh no. Only the Circle have the beastblood. You have to prove your honor first.” Farkas rummages inside his pack, and pulls out a bottle of mead, passes it over to Ja’kir. “You look like you need this.” Ja’kir nods quickly and begins downing the thing at an alarming rate. He hopes Farkas thinks he needs a drink because of the werewolf thing only, and not… not everything else.

“Besides,” Farkas continues, “it’s a choice. We all chose this.” Ja’kir’s eyes widen in surprise.

“You did?” Ja’kir asks, confused. “Why?” Farkas shrugs.

“It’s a good way to get out of situations like that,” Farkas says. “Makes us stronger.” Ja’kir nods. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

“Alright,” he says faintly, and sips at what’s left of the mead at a less ferocious rate. Ja’kir definitely doesn’t need to be drunk during his big test, that’s for sure.

“If it helps,” Farkas mutters after a moment, “I was in control the whole time.” Ja’kir finishes off the bottle, and stuffs it in his pack. He gets up, and extends a hand to Farkas.

“It doesn’t,” Ja’kir admits. His tail lashes behind him. “But that’s okay. Let’s get going.” Farkas takes it, and picks up his greatsword from where it’s fallen. He keeps it out, much to Ja’kir’s surprise.

“There’s bound to be more of them down there,” Farkas explains. “So we’re in this together.” Ja’kir nods.

“Okay, just please, please give this one a heads up before you do that again,” Ja’kir says. Farkas nods.

“Only can use it once a day, anyway,” Farkas mutters, then visibly stiffens as he seems to remember something. “Also… the werewolf thing is, uh, something of a secret-”

“Nobody will hear about it from this one,” Ja’kir says solemnly. This, at least, is a promise he can keep. “Let’s get that shard and go home.” Farkas nods, and it’s only when they’ve already fought several more werewolf-hunting bandits that he realizes he accidentally referred to Jorrvaskr as home.

In the final chamber, there’s a shard on a table that looks suspiciously like they’re looking for. Farkas nods, satisfied, and picks it up, but Ja’kir’s drawn to the wall behind it. There’s words on it, in some ancient language Ja’kir doesn’t understand, but he’s pretty sure it’s the same language as the other wall, the one in Bleak Falls Barrow. He reaches out, touches it, and nearly falls over.

“Hey, are you o- Shor’s bones!”

Ja’kir shakes his head in an attempt to clear his vision, then glances back and sees Farkas facing off against a disturbing amount of Draugr on his own, with more pouring in from Divines-know-where. He leaps into action beside Farkas, beside his… shield-brother. It sounds right, so Ja’kir rolls with it.

Farkas might be a werewolf, and the rest of the Companions could be for all this one cares, Ja’kir resolves as he fights, taking down Draugr after Draugr, and Farkas does the same beside him. Where Ja’kir’s combat style is based on speed, Farkas’ is based on power, and he has that in more ways than one. Farkas is still Farkas, and Farkas is still the most honorable person I know. They make a surprisingly good team, and soon, the Companion and the soon-to-be Companion are well on their way out.

Ja’kir still wants to be a Companion, Ja'kir tells himself as they approach Whiterun, and he’s almost surprised to find that he means it.

Chapter 8: Companions of Jorrvaskr

Summary:

Ja'kir finally is becoming a Companion, which is great except that things don't always go well on missions, especially not if you go in expecting a snowy saber cat and nearly get killed by a snow bear. Seriously, Sigrid, learn to tell the difference.

Or: I literally could have written an entire book of just Ja'kir going on missions with his shield-siblings, but this is called Tail of the Dragonborn, so you're just getting the highlights for now. Rest assured he's been on a lot more than just the two I wrote out for now.

“Brothers and sisters of the Circle, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold,” Kodlak announces, and against his better judgement, Ja’kir’s excited, and it shows. “This man has endured, has challenged, and has shown his valor. Who will speak for him?” For a moment, time seems to stop, and Ja’kir’s excitement gives way to terror.

What if no one speaks for Ja'kir? He thinks, struggling not to panic, eyes growing wide. What if-

“I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us,” Farkas says, and Ja’kir’s terror evaporates. He shouldn’t have worried. He did, because worrying is what he does, but that’s not important. What’s important is that he, Ja’kir, is about to become a Companion. A. Companion.

“Would you raise your shield in his defense?”

Ja’kir’s pretty sure at this point that the whole ceremony thing is scripted, but that doesn’t stop his excitement from growing, even overtaking his apprehension. Even if a bunch of the Companions are werewolves- wait, didn’t Farkas say the Circle are all werewolves? So that means… everyone here. Vilkas, Skjor, Aela… Kodlak. He has to be one. They all have to be.

Ja’kir suddenly remembers something Eorlund said some time ago about Aela being a, what was it, lone wolf . He finally gets it, even if that brings up a whole new set of questions Ja’kir probably will never ask.

“I would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us.”

Even though Ja’kir knows or at least thinks that the words of this are scripted, the same for everyone, pure joy and even more excitement flow through him at hearing Farkas stand for him. It isn’t like Farkas has to do that, after all, or maybe he does but Ja’kir suspects he would even if he didn’t have to.

“And would you raise your sword in his honor?”

Ja’kir’s breath catches in his throat, and he blinks back tears. They’re happy tears, he’s pretty sure, but still. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined this was even possible. It definitely wouldn’t have been possible back in Cyrodiil, where… on second thought, maybe not all the tears are happy.

“It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes.”

Would you still stand by Ja’kir if you knew what this one had done? Ja’kir wonders. Truthfully, he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“And would you raise a mug in his name?”

Ja’kir blinks, confused. That one caught him off-guard. The part about the shield makes sense, and so does the sword, but… a mug? Really? Well… if it’s scripted, then he can’t really do anything about it, no one can, but still. He’s a little confused, not that he isn’t always, not that he hasn’t been since waking up in that cart bound for Helgen and death.

“I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revels in his stories.”

Kodlak’s gaze meets Ja’kir’s, and against his better judgement, his heart swells with pride. He’s going to be a Companion now. He’ll be able to put his past behind him, and be a warrior, and defy the stereotype that all Khajiit are thieves, liars, assassins, cheats. He can do this. No, he’s going to do this.

“His heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers,” Kodlak continues, his eyes not leaving Ja’kir’s. “Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.”

“It shall be so,” everyone agrees, and Ja’kir’s this close to breaking down entirely. Farkas comes over soon after with a smile, and Ja’kir feels he can take on the world as long as Farkas believes in him.

“So, you're one of us now,” Farkas says, clapping a hand on Ja’kir’s shoulder, and he only flinches a little. “How's it feel?” Ja’kir takes a shaky breath, and manages a shrug.

“Terrifying, but exciting, still terrifying though,” Ja’kir answers, and sniffles. “Going to cry now.” Farkas chuckles.

“Everyone did, except maybe Skjor,” Farkas says, “but he was a lot older than the rest of us when he joined up, so he had an excuse.” Ja’kir nods, and wipes his eyes, but sniffles again. “Once you're done, the other whelps said to send you down. Pretty sure Torvar has mead.” Ja’kir cracks a shy smile.

“Of course he does, he drinks so much he probably bleeds mead. Don't want to test that, of course,” Ja’kir adds hastily, and Farkas nods. “And… thank you. For everything.” Farkas grins.

“Find me when you want some work,” Farkas says, and heads off in the general direction of Jorrvaskr. Ja’kir nods to no one in particular, and glances up to the evening sky. He can't quite make out the stars yet, so he walks, slowly, over to a bench and waits. He doesn't have to wait long for the sun to go down, and the stars to come out. He recognizes one constellation in particular, the Thief. His sign.

“But this one isn’t a thief,” the Khajiit says, frowning. Aless laughs, tucks that flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, and leans back onto the grassy hill. “Hey! Told you, J-”

“This one knows you aren't, we both do, and it doesn't work like that. If it did, Aless would be an atronach,” Aless says altogether too cheerfully. “Presumably the sign you’re born under determines your traits. Like, Aless is supposed to have a huge amount of magicka, but this one can't use it without help. As for you…”

“...this one takes risks more often, but rarely come to harm,” Ja’kir whispers. His eyes find the Atronach, and they well up with tears. “But Ja’kir’ll run out of luck eventually… this one thinks he already has. This one hopes you’re in a better place now.” He wipes his eyes and sits there for a minute, breathing in and out and in and out, and once he's at least somewhat composed, he heads in.

He's careful not to look up to the stars again, because he doesn't think he can take any more of this. Not tonight.

---

 “If either of you screw this up, I’ll personally make sure you’re both on dish duty for a week,” Vilkas warns, and while Ja’kir’s not particularly worried about himself, Torvar… definitely was not a good choice for a mission that’s supposed to be stealthy. “Understand?” Ja’kir nods silently. Torvar looks drunk, not that he isn't always. This is… not going to be easy.

“If you’re expecting us to mess up, then why bring us?” Ja’kir asks innocently, and is very soon on the receiving end of a glare from Vilkas. Like everyone else, he's learned to look past Vilkas being Vilkas at this point. Besides, Ja’kir has to admit that he'd still be the milk-drinker flailing around wildly and hoping to hit something if he hadn't learned anything from the guy.

“Because Kodlak thought the two of you could use the experience, and unfortunately, he's right,” Vilkas says bluntly, being about as much of an ass as usual. “Now. It’ll be better if we can get a read on how many there are, so get in there and check it out. Figure out where the hostage is, if you have a good opportunity to get him out then do it but don't get caught. Got it?” It takes Ja’kir a moment to realize Vilkas is talking to him, but then again, who else would he be talking to? Torvar?

“Got it,” Ja’kir agrees, dropping into a crouch. “What if this one… what if I screw up?” Vilkas groans.

“If we hear fighting, we’ll be there,” he says. “We won't leave you behind, if it comes to that. Now move.” Ja’kir nods, and creeps into the cave. His heart’s pounding so hard at this point that it seems a miracle that the bandits haven't heard him, but none of them do. As he creeps past them, completely undetected, he wonders who's more wasted, them or Torvar. Probably Torvar.

They're keeping their prisoner hog-tied and gagged in the back, in an alcove that's fortunately somewhat obscured from the rest of the cave. Ja’kir doesn't recognize him at first, and when the man’s eyes widen, he assumes it's because someone’s here for him.

“Hang on, J-I’ll get you out of there,” Ja’kir whispers, unsheathing one of his daggers and carefully getting to work. Whoever tied this guy up had a field day with the knots, and it takes some time for Ja’kir to even free the hostage’s hands. “This one- I’m with the Companions, we’re going to get you out of here.” He moves onto the man’s feet, and the prisoner reaches up to untie his gag.

“How in Oblivion are you a Companion?” The prisoner asks angrily, thankfully in a whisper, and as Ja’kir finishes, he glances up at the man again, and recognizes the last person he wanted to see again. “I should have you thrown in prison for what you pulled!” Ja’kir glares at the Nord, at… what was his name? Sven.

“Even if you could, you won't,” Ja’kir says coldly, “because this one is unfortunately stuck keeping you alive. Now be quiet and follow me if you want to stay that way.” Maybe Vilkas is rubbing off on him. Thankfully, Sven doesn’t argue, and slowly, carefully, the two begin to sneak out. Ja’kir finds that although slipping in was almost effortless, instinctive, getting back out is far harder, especially when you have someone not at all used to stealth trying and failing to follow you exactly.

Honestly, it’s something of a miracle that they’re almost out by the time Sven trips over his own feet and cries out, causing Ja’kir to mumble some rather choice words under his breath, stand up, and shove the Nord in the general direction of the exit.

“Go,” Ja’kir hisses, looking over the bandits. There are a lot of them, and he doesn’t particularly want to face them on his own. He doesn’t particularly want to face them at all, but he’s a Companion, so he’s supposed to be brave. He has to be brave. But there’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and Ja’kir suspects taking on ten bandits at once would be firmly within the realm of stupidity.

“You’ll make a fine rug, cat,” one of the bandits taunts as he and several of the others charge, and something within Ja’kir snaps. He charges too, but instead of striking outright, he dodges to the side and plants one of his daggers firmly in the offending bandit’s back. An arrow whistles past Ja’kir, so close that he can feel it pass by him, and he freezes.

Get the archer first, Ja’kir remembers Vilkas saying, over and over and over until it was practically ingrained in his head. Get the healer first if there is one, but get the archer first if there isn’t. If you’re fighting someone with a decent amount of skill, you’ll be too distracted to notice that arrow until it embeds itself in your gut, and then where will you be? Get. The archer. First.

The archer’s at the back of the group, and Ja’kir does a significant amount of dodging around strike after strike to get to her. He’s almost within striking range when pain blossoms into existence in his shoulder, and he stumbles, but strikes. The archer’s bow falls to the ground as its bearer does, and Ja’kir only has a moment to be relieved before he feels a blade pressed firmly to his neck.

“Move, and you die,” another of the bandits growls, and Ja’kir wisely freezes. “Now, you’re going to turn around, slowly. Make any sudden moves and it’s your neck.” Ja’kir turns around, and he’s honestly terrified. It probably shows in his eyes, because the bandit whose sword is currently pressed in the last place Ja’kir wants it to be laughs harshly.

Ja’kir can feel himself beginning to panic, but he can’t, or this situation will get even worse than it already is.He distracts himself by counting. There’s only three bandits now. Three are on the ground, and four are nowhere to be seen. The archer’s dead, as is another of the bandits, but a third is swearing profusely and huddled in a puddle of his own blood, so not dead yet. But four bandits… Vilkas and Torvar can handle them. He hopes.

As if on cue, Vilkas comes dashing in, Torvar hot on his heels and looking significantly less drunk than usual, although Ja’kir highly doubts he’s sober, or even close.

“Ja’kir! Stendarr’s-” Torvar shuts up quickly once he’s on the receiving end of a glare from Vilkas, who steps forward, greatsword in hand. The bandits shift nervously, and Ja’kir suspects they’d be a lot more nervous if they didn’t have a new hostage, courtesy of him screwing up like the idiot he is.

“Drop your weapons,” the bandit holding Ja’kir hostage orders. Torvar lets his sword fall immediately, and after a moment, Vilkas simply lowers his own with a glare. Ja’kir’s not sure if it’s directed towards him or the bandit, maybe both. Probably both. “Both of you.” Vilkas doesn’t move. His gaze meets Ja’kir’s own, as if to say well? Suddenly, inexplicably, Ja’kir gets an idea.

Before the bandit can demand Vilkas to drop his weapons again - and both Ja’kir and Vilkas know that's not going to happen - Ja’kir lets himself go completely limp, collapsing against the bandit. The bandit swears and drops him, and Ja’kir rolls to the side just in time for Vilkas to come charging in, taking on all three bandits by himself and winning. It's somewhat awe-inspiring. Strike that, it’s very awe-inspiring.

Things like this are why Ja’kir respects Vilkas, despite the man being an ass.

“Need a hand?” Torvar asks, offering one to Ja’kir. He takes it, and stands back up just as Vilkas finishes off the last of the bandits.

“Could really use a drink, if J- if I’m being honest,” Ja’kir says tiredly. “Might join you later.” Torvar perks up instantly, but then Vilkas comes over.

“What you need right now is a health potion,” Vilkas mutters, rummaging through his bag, “unless you want to pass out from blood loss before we’re even halfway back to Jorrvaskr.” He offers one to Ja’kir, who gratefully takes it and drains the bottle within seconds.

“Pull that arrow out before it kicks in,” Vilkas orders, and Ja’kir quickly does so, wincing only a little. “You don't want it to heal like that.” Ja’kir nods. That makes sense.

“Thanks,” Ja’kir says, then adds, hesitantly, “and sorry. That… could have gone better.” Vilkas nods, and Ja’kir’s heart sinks.

“It could have gone better,” Vilkas agrees, “but it could have gone a lot worse. We’re all alive and so is the guy we’re supposed to be rescuing. Now we just have to get him to Riverwood.” Ja’kir mumbles an agreement, although he’s definitely not looking forward to going all the way back to Riverwood with Sven, of all people. If it had been up to him, he would have just left the man there, but it wasn’t up to him. It was up to Vilkas, who, as was already established, is an ass.

---

 “How did someone even get a saber cat in their house?” Ja’kir asks, genuinely curious. Skjor shrugs, and quickens his pace. Ja’kir has to jog to catch up, and he’s suddenly very glad he's been doing so much training and running around lately, because he can go for much longer without getting too out of breath. “Seriously, though… and is it just me, or do we get a lot of jobs from Riverwood?” Skjor finally stops, turns around, and faces Ja’kir with his usual scowl.

“We get a lot of jobs from everywhere,” Skjor says bluntly. “Now am I going to have to put up with your incessant chattering for the entire time? Because if I wanted chatter, I would have grabbed Ria or Torvar.” The senior warrior continues walking, and Ja’kir’s ears go flat. For once, he's not wearing his helmet. Currently, it's in his pack, but that's beside the point.

“Sorry,” Ja’kir mumbles, catching up to him. “This one- I’m sorry.” He… really doesn't want to get on Skjor’s bad side, although when it comes to any of the younger, less experienced Companions, Skjor’s bad side seems to be all there is. Maybe a better idea would be to not get him even more pissed off than he always seems to be, but Ja’kir’s already failed at that.

Truthfully, he isn’t sure what he did wrong.

“Are the rumors true?” Ja’kir blurts out after a moment, and if he’d thought Skjor looked hostile before, he really looks hostile now. Ja’kir’s close to turning tail and running, except that he can’t, because cowards run, and Ja’kir is no coward.

This one was, though, Ja’kir reminds himself sadly, and almost misses Skjor’s response.

“What rumors?” Skjor asks, choosing his words carefully. It suddenly occurs to Ja’kir that Skjor probably thinks that he’s talking about the whole werewolf thing. He’s not, but… Ja’kir would have thought Farkas would have let the others know what went down. Skjor isn’t the sort of person you want to lie to, anyway, and Ja’kir suspects that Farkas isn’t the greatest liar. So maybe this isn’t about the werewolf thing. Maybe Skjor's just being defensive about what Ja'kir's actually asking about.

“About, you know,” Ja’kir says, fumbling for the right words, “you and Aela? Being, well… you know.” Skjor’s hostility quickly gives way to a mask of indifference, and Ja’kir wonders for a moment what it’s hiding.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, whelp,” Skjor mutters darkly, cracking his knuckles. Ja’kir wishes he didn’t flinch at the sound. “And save it for later. We’re here.” Ja’kir opens his mouth to protest, then closes it as they come around a bend in the road. Riverwood’s now in view, and as Ja’kir spots Ralof’s sister and her husband working at the mill, he wonders how Ralof’s doing.

By now, he’s probably back in Windhelm, and he’s probably rejoined the rest of the Stormcloaks. Although news on the war varies significantly depending on who you get it from, Ja’kir’s pretty sure that neither side has made significant progress recently. The Empire’s still reeling from Helgen, the Stormcloaks are scrambling to get their act back together, and then there's the dragons.

As Ja’kir follows Skjor through the town, he looks to the sky. There's a few isolated clouds, but the sun is shining through, and - most importantly - there's nothing flying around up there. No birds, and certainly no dragons. Ja’kir’s extremely relieved about that last bit.

The big, black, huge dragon at Helgen, the one that had burned the city to the ground easily, had been some sort of catalyst. More news of dragons came by the day, and while no other settlement has suffered Helgen’s fate as far as Ja’kir knows, not a single one has been brought down, ever. Truthfully, that terrifies Ja’kir far more than anything else.

“You’re from the Companions?” A Nord woman asks. She's got her hands on her hips, and looks pretty pissed. Ja’kir hopes it's not at him. He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it as he realizes she was addressing Skjor, not him. Skjor nods curtly, and the woman looks so incredibly relieved for a moment. “Good. Just… just get it out, please!” Skjor nods again, and heads in the general direction of the house’s front door. Ja’kir slips his helmet on and moves to follow him.

“Listen up, whelp,” Skjor says quietly, one hand on the door, the other on his sword. “You’re faster than me, so when I open this door, I'm going to need you to get in there and get the thing’s attention. Distract it. Understand?” Ja’kir nods quickly, and unsheathes his daggers.

Skjor flings open the door, and Ja’kir charges. He hisses at the white creature, and dodges to the side when it charges. As he does so, he hears Skjor come in, and the older warrior strikes. The animal stumbles back, but recovers far too quickly and strikes back, sending Skjor flying into the wall. Ja’kir’s eyes go wide.

It’s then that the snowy-furred creature returns its attention to Ja’kir, who simply stares into its beady eyes and realizes, a split second too late, that this is no saber cat. It's a bear, and it’s not just any bear. It's a snow bear, and Ja’kir knows full well how dangerous bears are.

“Move!”

Ja’kir does so, and even then the bear’s strike grazes his side. He hisses, and stumbles backwards, but stays standing. His panicked gaze meets Skjor’s pained one, and as Ja’kir watches Skjor try to stand, he realizes what they both need: time. Time enough to recover and finish this thing off. Ja’kir can give them time.

Before the bear can return its attention to Skjor, Ja’kir lets out what he hopes is a battle cry and jabs one of his daggers into the bear’s chest. It lets out a roar, and before it can strike, Ja’kir pulls out his dagger and runs. He runs for the other side of the house, then leaps for the stairs to the basement.

He almost makes it, too.

The bear’s jaws clamp down on Ja’kir’s leg, and he screams. Pain flares into existence, and although Ja’kir can barely hear anything over the sudden roaring in his ears, he definitely didn't imagine the painfully loud crack that came when the bear clamped down. He forces himself to ignore the pain, when all he wants it to curl up into a ball or just lay down and die. He forces himself to keep ahold of his daggers, and twists around to face the beast.

His leg throbs painfully, but instead of crumpling, he jabs both daggers into the bear’s head with all the strength he can muster. It roars again, this time in pain, and Ja’kir’s suddenly aware of the fact that he's covered in blood. Some of it’s the bear’s, sure, but some of it… some of it’s his own. Ja’kir can feel himself weakening, bleeding out, but the bear certainly isn't.

The bear finally lets go, turning around surprisingly fast, and Ja’kir can't find the strength to stand. He falls, and watches in pain as the bear approaches Skjor. Ja’kir tries to get up, to stand and fight, although at this point he'd settle for just standing. His legs don't work, and instead he watches in horror as Skjor attempts to pull himself together. The bear charges, and Skjor rolls to the side just in time. He blocks the bear’s next strike with his shield, then bashes, sending the bear reeling. Ja’kir watches as Skjor practically roars back at the thing, mere moments before slicing off its head.

If Ja’kir wasn't on the verge of passing out, he would have been more impressed. As it is, he manages a weak grin once Skjor comes over, noticeably limping.

“That went terribly,” Ja’kir manages as he sits up and rummages around in his pack. By now, he's started carrying several health potions with him, and he could kick himself for not thinking to grab one during the fight. He grabs one, uncorks it, and downs the contents maybe a bit faster than he should.

“That it did,” Skjor agrees, crouching next to Ja’kir with his usual scowl and grabbing a health potion of his own. Unless Ja’kir’s imagining it, they're both breathing heavily. “But that was no saber cat. That was a bear, and a strong one.”

Ja'kir nods, and tests his weight. He thinks he can stand, but he's not exactly looking forward to the trip back to Whiterun.

“It's close to dark,” Skjor mutters, apparently reading Ja’kir’s mind. He glances over. “We can stay here tonight.”

Ja’kir could hug him, but somehow he gets the feeling that that wouldn't go over too well, so instead he settles for a shy smile.

“Thank you,” Ja’kir whispers. “Thank you so much.” Skjor nods.

“Don't mention it,” Skjor says as he stands and offers Ja’kir a hand. “Ever.” Ja’kir takes it gratefully, and is relieved to find that the potion’s done its job. He can, in fact, stand.

---

Ja’kir’s well aware by now that Aela doesn't drink often, or really at all. So when she comes stumbling back in from a solo mission not long before dark and immediately goes for the mead, Ja’kir knows something’s up. He would grab Skjor, except that Skjor’s currently in Markarth on a mission with Njada, and the two of them won't be back for a couple of days at the very least. So instead, he pulls up the chair next to her and grabs a fresh bottle of mead himself.

“Mission didn't go well?” Ja’kir guesses. Aela nods, and sets her own bottle of mead on the table perhaps a little more loudly than Ja’kir would have. It's very clear she's pissed, and Ja’kir doesn't have to wait particularly long to find out why.

"Got sent into an ancient tomb crawling with Draugr for something that may or may not have even existed,” Aela says tiredly. “Well, it doesn't matter if it existed or not, because it was obvious from the beginning that someone else had already been through there. So I made sure to give the Jarl’s mage a piece of my mind for sending me on a wild goose chase.” Ja’kir nods. He hasn't met Farengar himself, but he's heard plenty about the mage from others who have. From what he's heard, he's not sure he wants to meet the guy.

“At least you weren't gone long,” Ja’kir offers helpfully. Aela shrugs. “Where did you get sent, anyway?”

“Bleak Falls Barrow,” Aela says, and Ja’kir chokes on his mead.

“You’re kidding,” Ja’kir manages once he's somewhat recovered. “Bleak Falls? Ja-I've been through there. Local shopkeeper hired me to get this golden claw thing back. Bandits stole it and hid up there for some reason.” He feels like it's probably a good idea to leave out the glowing wall at the end, because Faendal hadn't noticed it and he’s pretty sure he was hallucinating, anyway.

“Really?” Aela asks. “Damn. Well, did you find some weird stone with markings on it?” Ja’kir’s eyes go wide, and he nods.

“Be right back,” Ja’kir says, gets up, and dashes for the stairs and the chest next to his bunk. The stone he found isn't on top, but it doesn't take him too long to find it, and once he does he dashes back up and places it somewhat gently on the table. Aela picks it up and examines it curiously.

“Damn, this might actually be it,” Aela mutters. She gets up, picks up the stone, and drains the last of her mead. “Well, I’m not explaining where I got this thing, and I’m definitely not dealing with that overconfident mage on my own, so come on.” Ja’kir nods and follows her out silently. He doesn't make a sound until they’re up in Dragonsreach, and the man he assumes is Farengar is arguing with someone in leather armor not unlike Ja’kir’s own and a hood.

“What do you mean, it might not exist?” The hooded figure asks angrily, and Ja’kir concludes from her voice that the figure is most likely a woman. She sounds vaguely familiar, too, but Ja’kir can't quite place her and he's not about to waste time trying to. “The Dragonstone is either there or it isn't, Farengar. And if it isn't, then someone else took it. It exists.”

“The Companion the Jarl hired came to the same conclusion, but if someone else-” Farengar stops as the hooded woman nods to Aela, and as he turns around, his diplomatic smile gives way to a scowl. “What do you want now?”

“I've got your stone,” Aela says bluntly, placing the stone on the table, and Farengar’s eyes go wide. “Turns out Ja’kir here had it. Went in there weeks ago on a different mission.” She nods to Ja’kir, and all eyes go to him, including the hooded woman’s. He might not be able to see her staring at him, but he can certainly feel it and it’s rather unsettling.

“You went into Bleak Falls and got that?” The hooded woman asks. Ja’kir nods quickly. “Nice work.”

“Thank you,” Ja’kir manages, but her attention’s already directed back at Farengar.

“I'll be going, then,” the hooded woman says in Farengar’s general direction. “Just send me a copy when you've deciphered it.” With that, she leaves, leaving behind a mage and two Companions, none of whom are particularly happy with this situation.

“...so you promised us 500 septims for that,” Aela says after a moment, and Farengar’s scowl returns. “Should I talk to the Jarl’s steward, or-?”

“Yes, yes, just stop bothering me,” Farengar says hastily, and Aela leaves, Ja’kir right behind her. As it happens, the Jarl’s steward, a rather unfriendly Imperial by the name of Proventus Avenicci, is rather busy, and both Ja’kir and Aela wind up waiting for some time.

“You should keep the reward,” Ja’kir says after a while, glancing over at Aela. “This one- I got a fair bit from the reason this one was there.” Aela shakes her head.

“That’s not happening, so don’t even try,” she replies. “Neither of us would be getting anything if it weren’t for you, so we’re splitting it.” Ja’kir opens his mouth to protest, then realizes how futile doing so would be and closes it. If he’s learned anything during his time as a Companion, it’s that while stubbornness is a quality all his shield-siblings share, Aela doesn’t budge on anything, ever.

“Alright,” Ja’kir agrees, and it’s then the doors to Dragonsreach are slammed open, by… by a guard, by a regular-looking guard, minus the fact that he’s breathing heavily and looks absolutely terrified of… something. Ja’kir doesn’t know what, but he suspects he’s about to find out. He suspects everyone’s about to find out, and somehow, he has a bad feeling about this. He’s not sure he wants to find out.

“Dragon! At the Western Watchtower,” shouts the guard in a panic, attracting all sorts of attention from the various occupants within Dragonsreach. It’s rather warm inside the palace, especially compared to outside, but despite this Ja’kir feels a shiver run down his spine.

He’d hoped that the dragon at Helgen would be the last one he’d ever have to deal with.

He’d been wrong.

Chapter 9: The Dragonborn Comes

Summary:

Dragon attack! I'm honestly not sure what difficulty Ja'kir's on here but I think it must be legendary because he is really good at being really bad at fighting dragons. Then again, he has no ranged weapons at this point in time, so... whoops.

Also, note to self: write more fight scenes. I need more practice writing fight scenes that isn't Pokemon battles, for obvious reasons. As great as Pokemon battles are, they're... well, Pokemon battles. (I should probably stop talking about Pokemon in the chapter summary of a Skyrim fic...)

For future reference: hover over Dovahzul for translations. Not that you need a translation at this point in time, but that's why I said for future reference, and it's a good way for me to make sure this works.

“So, what was this dragon doing?” Jarl Balgruuf asks, and Ja’kir tries, desperately, to keep himself from panicking any more than he already is. He glances to Aela, who looks focused, and probably would leap at the chance to fight this thing. They don’t call her Aela the Huntress for nothing, after all, but Ja’kir, on the other hand…

No, Ja’kir thinks. This one is a Companion now. This one has to be brave. And this one will be brave.

“It was just circling when I left,” the guard says quickly, still very much out of breath. “I never ran so fast in my life... I thought I wouldn't make it.” Ja’kir suspects the guard sprinted the entire way, and he doesn't blame him. He would have done the same in a heartbeat.

“Good work,” Balgruuf says, clapping a hand on the terrified guard’s shoulder. “Get down to the barracks, get some rest, son. You've earned it. We’ll take it from here.” The guard nodded, and left, and it’s only then that Ja’kir wonders who exactly the Jarl is including in that ‘we’.

“My Jarl,” Irileth begins respectfully, shifting from foot to foot, “permission to take a group out to bring the fight to the dragon?” Balgruuf nods slowly.

“Irileth, this isn’t a death or glory mission,” he warns. “I want to know what we’re up against.” Reluctantly, Irileth nods, and the Jarl turns to Aela and Ja’kir as she heads out.

“Companions, can I ask you to join her?” Balgruuf asks. “Rest assured, you will be rewarded.” Ja’kir knows what Aela’s answer will be even before she opens her mouth, and he wishes fervently for it to be anything else.

“You don't have to ask,” Aela says seriously, then glances to Ja’kir. “We… probably don't have enough time to grab the rest of Jorrvaskr.” Ja’kir agrees, unfortunately. He shakes his head, and as Aela runs off in the direction Irileth left in, he follows her, and hopes to whatever gods might exist that they're not all going to their death.

They catch up with Irileth just inside Whiterun’s walls, and manage to catch the tail end of a speech that must have been awe-inspiring, because the four guards with Irileth look ready to kill a dragon. Ja’kir wishes he’d heard it. Maybe then he wouldn't be wishing he could disappear and not have to fight this thing.

As they come up on what Ja’kir assumes is the Western Watchtower, or was the Western Watchtower, it looks suspiciously like the dragon’s already come and gone. The tower is in shambles, parts of it are still on fire, and there's no dragon in sight.

“Certainly looks like it's been here,” Aela remarks dryly, and Ja’kir wonders how in Oblivion she isn't terrified like he is. Experience, maybe, or just not being a complete and utter coward like Ja’kir is. Irileth nods in agreement.

“Spread out and search for survivors,” Irileth orders, raising her voice to reach the other guards in the group. “Keep an eye out for the dragon, if it comes back. We don't want to be caught unawares.” Ja’kir agrees wholeheartedly, although it’s some reluctance that he distances himself from her and Aela, and heads up to what’s left of the watchtower. He climbs the shattered stones relatively easily, but before he can go inside someone else comes out.

“Stay back,” cries the man, a Nord in the usual guard uniform minus the helmet. Ja’kir’s not sure he wants to know what happened to it. “It’s still here, Hroki and Tor got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!” Ja’kir’s eyes go wide, and they go even wider as an unmistakable roar splits the air.

Dragon.

Ja’kir’s instincts kick in, and he ducks as the dragon swoops low, sending the helmetless guard flying. Ja’kir feels the dragon pass over him, and the sheer force, the sheer power… it nearly knocks him off his feet, too. He stands a little too quickly, and is nearly knocked off his feet again by the thing’s massive, scaly tail. Actually, everything about it is massive. It’s a dragon, after all.

The dragon comes around for another pass, and this time Ja’kir’s ready. He ducks, and slashes at its scales with both daggers and all the strength he can muster. It roars, either in frustration or in pain, but… clearly the fight isn’t over yet, and it won’t be for some time.

“Get down from there!” Aela yells, and Ja’kir does so mere moments before fire fills the spot he’d just occupied. Not just any fire, either, dragon fire. Fire breath. Very, very deadly. Ja’kir glances around for a few moments, looking for her, and he spots her just as she looses an arrow. It slips between the scales on its neck, and the dragon bellows in rage. “Irileth! We need to ground it!”

As Aela and the guards who aren’t dead and carry bows continue firing, Aela with significantly more accuracy than the others, Irileth raises an empty hand. Lightning crackles, magical lightning, and it’s a matter of seconds before she hurls it directly at the dragon’s gaping maw. The lightning magic collides with its fire breath, and the dragon reels, finally landing.

Ja’kir’s on it in a matter of moments, slashing with all the speed and power he can muster. The dragon turns, and as Ja’kir dodges and leaps in again, he swears he saw its eyes widen, in… recognition? He hesitates for a moment, and that moment’s hesitation is all the dragon needs to sweep him off his feet with a wing, sending him flying.

While dragons have wings and are meant to fly, and therefore can do so easily, Khajiit are most certainly not meant to fly. Ja’kir is no exception, unfortunately for him. He hits the ground mere seconds after taking off, and a painfully loud cracking sound as well as the worst landing in the history of landings tells him pretty quickly that something’s broken, and he’s not sure he wants to know what, but he needs to know so he can work around it, but first he needs to get ahold of himself and get up.

Ja’kir’s not even sure he can do that, but as his heart pounds and his ears fill with noise, he slowly gets up. Too slowly, but he needs to get back in the fight, and better late than never. This dragon… it needs to die. Assuming it can even be killed.

In the fall, he’s dropped his daggers. One of them he picks up easily, but when he attempts to shift it to his other hand to grab the other, his wrist doesn’t work, and pain surges through it like fire through a passageway. He yelps and drops the dagger instinctively, and instead of picking it up right away he grabs a health potion as fast as he can and downs it, hoping to whatever gods might exist that it’ll work.

As he waits for it to kick in, he picks up the dagger and sheathes it, then picks up its match and scans the battlefield, because that’s what this has turned into, and he can’t afford to wait long enough for the potion to mend his wrist entirely. At least half of the guards are either dead or dying, Irileth is still standing but bleeding badly from a wound in her side, channeling lightning with one hand and trying to keep from bleeding out with the other, and Aela…

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Ja’kir can’t see her anywhere.

The dragon roars and takes to the skies, but before it does it bites one of the guards clean in half. The unlucky man’s bottom half stays standing for a moment on its own, then falls with a wet thump, causing Ja’kir to wince and look away. He’s more trying to not look at the formerly dead guard than anything in particular, but as luck would have it, there’s someone lying facedown in the dirt in the direction he did look, someone with a discarded bow next to her and messy red hair.

Someone who’s not getting back up.

Pleasedon’tbedeadpleasedon’tbedeadpleasepleaseplease-

Ja’kir all but forgets about the dragon at this point. He sprints across the open field, narrowly dodging the dragon’s fire in the process, and drops to his knees next to her. She’s not bleeding, or at least not badly enough that it’s immediately noticeable, which is probably a good sign. Strike that, it’s definitely a good sign, and he’ll take what he can get at this point. As he rolls her over, she mumbles something inaudible, but doesn’t move, doesn’t open her eyes. Her arm’s twisted at an awkward angle, and it doesn’t take a healer to tell that she’s out of this fight.

Ja’kir stands, and cautiously tests his broken wrist. It’s still not healed completely, although it doesn’t hurt quite as much when he strains it anymore. That’s good, he supposes. Despite this, when the dragon lands to finish Irileth off - Ja’kir doesn’t see any more guards, or at least no more standing and fighting - he lets out a scream and charges, with only one dagger, a broken wrist, and a determination to finish this in one way or another.

This time, instead of dashing in, he leaps onto the thing’s wing and stabs at that. Unlike with its scales, the lone dagger tears through its wing easily, and by the time the dragon realizes what’s happening, it’s grounded for good.

That, of course, doesn’t keep the dragon from throwing him off again, but this time he lands more-or-less without incident, and finally, finally, he sees an opening. As Irileth shocks the thing a final time with her lightning spell, Ja’kir dashes in, slides underneath, and, with all the strength he can muster, jabs up.

“DOVAHKIIN? NO!”

It goes limp after this, and when it falls, Ja’kir barely rolls out of the way in time. He tries to stand up, he definitely does, but he can’t seem to muster up the strength. His body feels so, so heavy, and his vision’s going fuzzy… but he can’t just give up. Not now. But…

This one... can’t do this…

He collapses in on himself, and ignoring the sudden glow about him, he lets his eyes fall closed.

When Ja’kir opens his eyes, he’s not sure what he’s more surprised about, the fact that he’s not dead or the fact that he’s unmistakably back in Jorrvaskr. Someone clears their throat next to him, and he turns his head - painfully, ouch - to see Aela, and that adds a third thing to be surprised about.

“Welcome back,” Aela offers as Ja’kir attempts to sit up. Failing once, he tries again, and eventually settles for a rather uncomfortable position between sitting up and lying down. “So… congratulations, kid. You killed a dragon.” Ja’kir’s eyes go wide. He remembers everything, and- oh no.

“This one thinks he’s going to be sick,” Ja’kir says urgently, and Aela points to an empty basket next to the bed, likely for that purpose. He grabs it and proceeds to empty the contents of his stomach, and only once he’s sure he’s not going to throw up anymore - although he keeps the basket well within reach - he takes a deep breath, and then another. “Thanks.” Aela nods.

“Healers mentioned that might happen,” she says dryly. “Good thing I believed them.” Ja’kir nods, then realizes something, and his face falls.

“Wait,” he begins cautiously, slowly, “you said… I killed the dragon? That’s not right. We all killed it. This one- I barely helped at all. This one can’t even shoot.” Aela glances his way incredulously, before apparently remembering something as well.

"Right, you passed out before it happened,” Aela mutters, then shrugs, and leans back in her chair. “Well… do you know what the Dragonborn is?” Ja’kir thinks on this a moment, and while he doesn’t know much, he’s heard some things.

“Not really,” he admits. “J-I know Tiber Septim was Dragonborn, and this one knows the Empire is ruled by Dragonborn Emperors. This one… I never really thought about what it meant. What does this have to do with the dragon?” Aela opens her mouth to answer, then hesitates.

“Well, I’m no scholar, but being Dragonborn means you have ‘dragon blood within you’, whatever that’s supposed to mean,” Aela tries, and Ja’kir’s still really, really confused. “It also means you can kill dragons, I think.”

“Alright,” Ja’kir agrees, “but what does this have to do with the dragon we fought?” Aela looks distinctly uncomfortable with the question for whatever reason, but before she can even begin to answer, the ground begins to shake, and Ja’kir’s eyes widen in alarm.

“DOVAHKIIN!”

“What was- what was that-?” Ja’kir stammers, trying not to panic. Aela looks even more uncomfortable with the situation.

“I really shouldn’t be the one telling you this,” she mutters, “but… they’re calling the Dragonborn. The Dragonborn can kill dragons. Do you remember who killed the dragon?”

Ja’kir’s eyes go even wider as he realizes what she's trying to tell him.

“...this one thinks he’s going to throw up again.”

Aela shrugs indifferently.

"Go ahead, just not on me or I will make you regret it."

Chapter 10: The Road to High Hrothgar

Summary:

Ja'kir has a housecarl now, but unfortunately she and the other Companion going with him don't get along. At all. It's probably for the best that she can't leave Whiterun Hold. (Or maybe she's just saying that... hmm...)

Speaking of the other Companion going with him... well, Ja'kir has a lot of questions about lycanthropy and fortunately for him, Aela doesn't mind answering them. (Makes you wonder what she's planning...)

“This can’t be right,” Ja’kir mumbles (and not for the first time), earning a groan from Aela (also not for the first time). “This can’t be right. This one can’t be the Dragonborn. J- I can’t possibly be the Dragonborn.” Aela looks thoroughly done with him at this point, and if he wasn’t so shaken by the fact that he’s apparently the Dragonborn, he’d probably agree with her.

“Suck it up, kid, you’re the Dragonborn,” Aela replies, then glances to the third member of the group, who looks about as uncomfortable as Ja’kir feels. “You’re also a Thane of Whiterun, so you probably should at least try to act the part.” Lydia shifts her pack, looks over, and nods in his general direction. Ja’kir can’t say he blames her, but…

Right. This one is a Thane, and this one still isn’t sure what that means, other than that apparently this one has a… housecarl? This one thinks that’s the word.

If he were anyone else, Ja’kir would find it ironic that a Khajiit would be the Dragonborn, considering that most Khajiit aren’t allowed in cities without specific business within. After he’d gotten into the Companions, he only had to be with one of the others to get in and out, but the first time… he’d been half-expecting the guards to laugh in his face and throw him out. After all, he’s a Khajiit, and clearly all Khajiit are liars, thieves, and assassins. But considering that he’s the Dragonborn, and he’s not an observer, he’s terrified of this.

“My Thane, I can only go with you as far as the hold border,” Lydia says suddenly in Ja’kir’s general direction. “I will have to turn back before we reach Ivarstead.” If it’s possible for Aela to look even more thoroughly done with this situation, she does. It’s at the point where Ja’kir’s fairly certain she wouldn’t be here if Kodlak hadn’t asked her to come. Ja’kir’s grateful, sure, but he wouldn’t blame her for heading back to Whiterun. He wouldn’t want to deal with himself, either.

“Well that’s useless,” Aela says bluntly, glaring daggers at Lydia. “Why don’t you just go back to Whiterun now, then? We’re Companions. We don’t need you.” Lydia’s expression doesn’t betray a thing, but when she hefts her pack and speaks again, the crack in her voice indicates she’s not quite as emotionless as Ja’kir initially thought.

“I’d gladly do so, Companion, but orders are orders, and the Jarl’s orders were to accompany the Dragonborn as far as the border,” Lydia replies. “And while I answer both to the Jarl and my thane, I don’t answer to you.” Aela smirks.

“Right. You’re too good for the likes of us, aren’t you. After all, you aren’t a brute mercenary like us, oh no. You’re employed by the Jarl, which makes so much of a difference, doesn’t it.”

By now, Ja’kir’s wishing he had gone to Ivarstead - and High Hrothgar - alone. It couldn’t possibly have been that hard, after all…

“Hey! This is a toll road, y’hear?”

It’s a woman who’s spoken, from in front of a tower of sorts, a Dunmer woman in fur armor with an iron mace at her hip and a annoyed scowl on her face. Ja’kir freezes instinctively.

“It is?” Ja’kir asks, confused. She nods.

“Sure is. You’re gonna have to hand over… say, two hundred septims if ya want to go any further, got it?”

Ja’kir freezes, because while he has that much, he’s never heard of this being any sort of toll road. He didn’t even think toll roads existed in Skyrim. The ones back in Cyrodiil certainly weren’t this expensive, anyway…

“Bullshit,” Aela says. The Dunmer’s hand goes to her mace, and Aela reaches for a dagger. “Let us pass, or it’s not going to end well for you or any of your friends.” The Dunmer chuckles, and Ja’kir hears Lydia begin unsheath her sword. He goes for his daggers, realizing too late that this is a bandit they’re talking to, and almost certainly there’s more bandits around.

“That’s what they all say, you s’wit,” the Dunmer says, right before she charges. Aela sidesteps the bandit’s initial attack easily. Her dagger slides into the Dunmer’s side just as easily, and the bandit collapses.

“Those could have been legitimate toll collectors, you know,” Lydia begins, but Aela shakes her head. “Are you even listening to m-?”

“No, and clearly you’ve never been far from Whiterun before,” Aela says. “This is Valtheim Towers. Notorious bandit hideout, we’ve had an eye on it for some time. We might as well clear it out while we’re here, save Farkas the trouble.” She’s clearly talking to Ja’kir, who shrugs.

“Alright,” Ja’kir says, attempting to sound like he isn’t dreading this, because even if these are bandits, they’re people, and… well, he has to do this. He has to. It’s not like the bandits would feel guilty over his death, if their positions were switched. “Let’s do this.”

“What!? No, this isn’t what we’re supposed to be doing at all,” Lydia says, “you’re supposed to be getting your arse up to High Hrothgar and doing whatever you need to do as Dragonborn, not this, and- archer!”

Ja’kir ducks immediately, and flinches away from the surprisingly well-aimed arrow that passes overhead. Aela’s got her bow out by now, and aiming carefully, looses a single arrow. It finds its mark, and the bandit archer falls off the bridge above with a scream.

“Listen, I don’t care why you’re here anymore,” Aela says finally, glancing over at Lydia, “although I suspect it has more to do with politics than actually caring about his well-being. But either you’re helping us clear this fort of bandits so they don’t cause trouble for people who aren’t able to defend themselves, or you’re going back to Whiterun right now. Got it?”

Lydia opens her mouth to argue, then closes it, and nods curtly. Her jaw’s set in a grim line and there’s a fire in her eyes that tells Ja’kir this is anything but over, but for now, she’s an ally, if a reluctant one.

Listen, if you can get help on a job, you do it, Ja’kir remembers Skjor saying. Even if it means you have to divide the reward more ways. Even if the help is a pain in the arse. Better the help dies than one of your shield-brothers or shield-sisters. You got it, whelp?

Ja’kir hadn’t quite understood at the time. Now, he realizes Skjor might have been onto something, but he’ll have plenty of time for thinking later. Right now, they’ve got a job to do. Ideally, Lydia would go in swinging, with Ja’kir picking off stragglers and Aela covering them both from behind, but ideal situations rarely occur, and Ja’kir highly doubts Lydia would be willing to go in first. Instead, Ja’kir charges in, daggers at the ready, and hopes the others will follow.

Against three well-trained warriors, the bandits don’t stand a chance.

---

By the time Ja’kir and Aela arrive at Ivarstead, it’s just after dusk. Lydia turned back not long ago, and while Ja’kir’s more than a little worried about if she got back to Whiterun safely, he’s not about to say so. It’s painfully obvious that Aela’s glad she’s gone, and Ja’kir wonders, and not for the first time, why Aela’s so insistent on accompanying him the entire way. After all, he probably could have gotten Ria to go with him, or Torvar. Maybe Athis. He isn’t sure whether Njada would have agreed or not, or if he even could have gotten up the courage to ask any of them.

After all, now that he’s apparently some mythical Dragonborn warrior… nobody’s treated him quite the same since, and he hates it so, so much. It’s different from being treated as Khajiit scum, but Ja’kir’s certain it’s not a good difference, not in the least.

Khajiit, Dragonborn… why can’t you just see this one as Ja’kir?

“Hey, kid, still with me?” Aela asks, and Ja’kir jumps. He hadn’t realized he’d zoned out. “Got you a room at the inn. I’ve never actually been on the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar, but it’s not supposed to be for the faint of heart - not that anything in Skyrim is, but you should still get some sleep.” Ja’kir nods gratefully, then realizes something. His eyes go wide.

“Wait… a room?” Ja’kir stammers. “As in… one? Not two?” Aela takes a moment to realize what he’s getting at, and laughs.

“Not like that, kid. get your mind out of the gutter. I don't need a room. You can probably guess why.”

She's right, Ja’kir can. He distinctly remembers Farkas mentioning on the way back from Dustman’s Cairn that sleep didn't come easy as a werewolf, or, really, at all. But still…

“This one- I thought-”

“Oh, we all know Farkas had to shift in front of you,” Aela says with a shrug. “Seeing as you didn’t lose your shit anytime afterwards, there’s not exactly any point in hiding our gift. Just don’t go asking Vilkas about it because he will lose his shit.”

Ja’kir nods. That makes sense, and while he hadn’t been planning to ask Vilkas about that or anything, now he definitely won’t. If he really needs to ask him something, maybe he can get Ria to help, since he actually doesn’t hate her. Somehow. He’s still not sure what’s going on there, but he knows better than to get involved.

He would have headed into the inn to sleep right then, but something stops him. After a moment’s thinking, he realizes what it is. Aela referred to the werewolf thing as, specifically, a gift. He knows he’s never heard that before.

“Can this one- can I ask you about it?” Ja’kir asks. Aela shrugs.

“Fine by me, but save it for the trip up.”

The next morning, Ja’kir’s got so many questions that he can’t think what to ask first, because while his instincts tell him no, werewolves are bad, he’s actually rather curious. Really curious. After all, most people assume all Khajiit are untrustworthy at the very least, when they aren’t, or at least Ja’kir isn’t. So he figures it’s not too much of a stretch that there could be good werewolves.

Also, as already mentioned, he’s maybe a little too curious.

“So,” Ja’kir begins, maybe a little too excited, “what’s it… what’s it like? Being a werewolf?” Aela shrugs.

“Hard to explain, but I’ll try,” she says as the two trudge up the mountain. “It’s… well, have you ever gone hunting?” Ja’kir shakes his head, and Aela swears under her breath.

“No, sorry,” Ja’kir admits. “Should this- should I have?” Aela nods.

“Skjor and I are definitely going to fix that once we get back to Whiterun,” Aela mutters, “but anyway. It’s like hunting, except you’re always hunting. You always feel the thrill of the chase, the hunt… personally, I like it, but it’s not for everyone. Guessing that’s not your only question.” Ja’kir shakes his head again.

“What’s it like when you’re actually in your werewolf form… thing?”

“It’s… different. A good different. I’m stronger, faster. I’d say it’s worth it.”

“Can you trans-”

“No,” Aela says flatly, much to Ja’kir’s surprise. She shrugs, and amends her statement. “Believe me, kid, I’d love to show you, but this is a well-known path. Too many people around. Too many cowards who can’t stand the sight of glory before them. But I like you. Tell me… if you were offered the opportunity to become one of us, would you?”

Ja’kir nearly trips on one of the many (well, seven thousand) steps. Fortunately for him, he doesn’t trip, because that would be a long way to fall. Aela doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t say something, and he’s grateful.

“This one- I don’t know,” he says cautiously. “I don’t know for sure, but this one… I think I might. Don’t know for sure, but Ja- I’d be open to it.” Aela nods, satisfied.

“Good. There’s too many closed-minded fools around here. Any more questions?”

“Yes,” Ja’kir says, and gulps. “If this one… if I became a werewolf… how would that even work?” Aela stops in her tracks, and frowns.

“Can’t answer that one, kid,” she says. “You’ll have to become one to find out.”

---

 Several thousand steps later, they’re finally, finally approaching High Hrothgar. Aela took it upon herself to read every single one of the emblems along the way, and while Ja’kir can’t say he blames her, he’s just glad she hadn’t mentioned anything in any of them. At least, not until now.

“Well, that was interesting,” Aela says briskly as the two approach the last of the emblems. She reads it, and nods. “Can’t say I agree with everything on here, but Kodlak was right about this, at least. This is the kind of trip you want to make at least once. What do you make of it?” Ja’kir peers at the emblem, and wills himself to make sense of it, somehow, please ...

He can’t.

“It’s... interesting,” Ja’kir manages, hoping to whatever gods might exist that she doesn’t ask anything more specific. It’s bad enough that he’s a Khajiit, after all.

He knows he can’t hide it forever, but he has to try. Ja’kir knows that when the others find out… it won't be good. At best, everyone's opinions of him will drop dramatically. At worst, it’ll bring up all sorts of questions… questions Ja’kir doesn't even know if he can bring himself to answer, even if he wanted to. Much to his relief, Aela doesn't seem particularly interested in what's written anymore.

“Well, we should probably get you to the Greybeards,” Aela says after a moment, and continues walking. Ja’kir follows her, and it's not long before they approach High Hrothgar. “Think I’m allowed in?” Ja’kir’s gaze hardens.

“If this one’s allowed in, you’d better be,” he says, and Aela chuckles.

“Don't worry, if I'm not, I can just wait out here… in the cold… okay, that's not happening. The Greybeards’ll understand.”

“What if they don't?”

“I’ll sneak in,” Aela says completely seriously, somehow also keeping a straight face. Ja’kir stares at her incredulously, and said straight face gives way to an evil grin. “What? They're old men. Can't be that hard to sneak past them.”

Ja’kir sighs.

“...if you get caught, you’re not with this- me. You're not with me..”

“Got it... Dragonborn.”

"Please don't call me that," he says uncomfortably. "Please."

Chapter 11: The Perks of Being the Dragonborn

Summary:

The perks of being the Dragonborn apparently include people thinking the other person with you is actually the Dragonborn, nearly Shouting yourself off mountains, voices in your head that may or may not be that dragon you killed last week, and hopeless crushes. Ja'kir's doomed.

As soon as Ja’kir sets foot in the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar, he instantly feels on edge, like he doesn’t belong here. Truth be told, he can’t seem to relax anywhere in Skyrim, not even in Jorrvaskr, but this… is different. Most of the time, it’s just him that’s the problem, but here he can feel a certain tension in the air, and an ancient power that isn’t quite magic but can’t be described as anything else, either.

“Well, we’re in,” Aela muses aloud, and there’s a curiosity in her gaze that Ja’kir hasn’t seen before. “Wonder where the Greybeards are?” Ja’kir begins to shrug, then freezes as he hears footsteps that definitely aren’t him or Aela. He glances to a hallway on the left, and watches, spellbound, as four figures slowly file in.

“So, a Dragonborn appears at this moment in the turning of the age,” the first of them greets, and bows slightly. Ja’kir only stares. “I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards.” It’s only then that Ja’kir realizes that he’s not talking to him, he’s talking to Aela, who looks mildly surprised, then smirks.

“Not me, I’m not the Dragonborn,” she says altogether too cheerfully considering that she would actually make a much better Dragonborn, and shoves Ja’kir forward. He tries not to stumble. “I can’t Shout. This kid’s the one you’re looking for.” Ja’kir raises a paw awkwardly in greeting, and manages what he hope passes for a smile.

“This one… I… hello,” Ja’kir stammers. “Yes. This one- I’m Dragonborn. Apparently. My name’s Ja’kir. I’m… I’m answering your summons.” Arngeir looks him over, and nods after a moment.

“We will see if you truly have the gift,” Arngeir says. “Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your voice.” Ja’kir stares at him blankly for a painfully long time, until Aela elbows him.

“I think they want you to Shout, kid,” she says, and Ja’kir freezes.

“What? This one… I don’t… I don’t know how,” Ja’kir forces out, and he’s quite certain that he would be a bright red right now if it were not for his fur. Regardless of fur, his face feels like it’s on fire, and he honestly would rather be on fire than have to deal with this.

“No? Well, you will learn,” Arngeir says with a glint in his eye that makes Ja’kir glance not-so-subtly toward the door and wonder if it’s too late to pretend the whole Dragonborn thing never happened. “Repeat after me: fus. ” Ja’kir nods.

“Th- alright,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “FUS!” Ja’kir suddenly realizes two things. One, he just Shouted. Whatever that fus thing was, it was a Shout. And two… he accidentally Shouted at Arngeir. He accidentally Shouted at an old guy who already may or may not have been judging him rather harshly.

Well, shit.

“Dragonborn, it is you,” Arngeir confirms after he’s dusted himself off, and while Ja’kir was hoping it’d be like a weight lifted off his shoulders, it’s feels suspiciously like someone just shoved a whole lot more on instead. “Welcome to High Hrothgar. Now, tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?”

Ja’kir grins uneasily. While his gut tells him Arngeir can, in fact, be trusted, he’s still absolutely terrified of all this Dragonborn business.

“This one- I came here to figure out what it means to be Dragonborn,” he manages, and adds in a somewhat stronger voice, “I want to find out what it means to be Dragonborn. And… why me?” Arngeir nods.

“We are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you,” he says. “And as to why… that remains to be seen.” Ja’kir can tell what Arngeir’s thinking, and it’s not all that far off from his own thoughts: why a Khajiit? All of a sudden, he realizes something that’s probably obvious, but he asks anyway.

“You mean… J-I’m not the only Dragonborn?” Ja’kir asks, surprised. Arngeir nods, and glances to Aela.

“I believe your companion can tell you more about your predecessors,” Arngeir says, with a pointed look to Aela. Unlike Ja’kir, she’s not remotely intimidated, or at least doing a very good job of hiding it if she is. “You are not the first. There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon mortalkind. Whether you are the only Dragonborn of this age… that is not ours to know.”

“What?” Ja’kir says, confused. Arngeir shakes his head dismissively.

“You are the only one that has been revealed thus far,” Arngeir continues. “That is all I can say.” Maybe so, but Ja’kir still perks up immensely, and turns to Aela.

“There might be other Dragonborns, Aela!” Ja’kir exclaims, immensely relieved, and now it’s like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. “I might not have to figure all this out!” Aela only shrugged, and Arngeir cleared his throat, and oh shit he’s still talking to the leader of the Greybeards.

“If there are other Dragonborn, they know not of it,” Arngeir continues. “Nor do we. At this point, it’s best to assume that there are no others.” The spark of hope that’s flared within Ja’kir dissipates, and while he tries not to look too disappointed, he’s fairly certain he’s failed if the somewhat-sympathetic look he’s getting from Aela is any indication.

“Oh,” Ja’kir manages, and his eyes blur, and he can’t do this, not here, so he takes a deep breath, somehow manages to clear his vision without breaking down entirely, and meets Arngeir’s gaze again. “Then… then I’m ready to learn.” Arngeir nods approvingly.

“Without training, you have already taken the first steps toward projecting your Voice into a Thu’um, a Shout. Now, let us see if you are willing and able to learn,” Arngeir says, and begins walking to the side of the room. He looks to Aela next. “While a companion of the Dragonborn is as welcome as he is here, I would ask you to step back.” Aela quickly does so.

“Don’t worry, I understand,” she says hurriedly. “I’ve heard what happened to the High King. I’ll stay out of the way.” Something dark and pained crosses Arngeir’s face then, but it’s gone so quickly that Ja’kir thinks he might have imagined it.

“When you Shout,” Arngeir says, once again addressing Ja’kir and Ja’kir only, “you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power.

“All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power. As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger.”

Ja’kir’s eyes go wide.

“So, if I knew the words that went with fus -” (The ground rumbles just so as the Khajiit Dragonborn unintentionally Shouts, but luckily for the sake of Ja’kir’s admittedly-fragile confidence, he doesn’t notice.) “-I’d be able to make it stronger… but what does fus do?” The ground rumbles again as he says it again, and while Ja’kir either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, Aela certainly does. She makes a mental note of this, because if the one word is this powerful, the full thing could likely bring down buildings.

Not that she’d necessarily want to bring down buildings, of course… excluding buildings housing a certain group of “mercenaries” who were currently poking their noses where they certainly weren’t wanted or needed.

“Fus is the first word in the Unrelenting Force Shout,” Arngeir says, and Aela is mildly surprised to find that when he says it, the ground doesn’t shake. Surprised, yes, but also impressed. “In our tongue, it translates to ‘force’. Think of it as… pushing something with your Voice.” Ja’kir doesn’t quite get it, but he figures he’ll figure it out, eventually. He usually does.

“Now,” Arngeir continues, “while you already had some knowledge of fus, we are indeed quite curious as to how you learn completely new words.”

---

 “I can’t believe they sent you on a fetchquest,” Aela grumbles as the pair trudges down the mountain. “The least they could have done was let you stay the night. They probably need sleep, so they should have beds…”

“What’s a fetchquest?” Ja’kir asks, and earns a surprised stare from Aela. “Guessing… I should know what that means?” Aela nods, and adjusts her pack with a scowl, although Ja’kir’s pretty sure it’s directed at a bunch of old men living on the slopes of the Throat of the World, not him.

“It’s a ‘quest’ - job, more like - where you have to fetch something, you’ve done some, everyone’s done some,” Aela explains. “Personally I try to avoid them, and I would have thought the Greybeards would have at least told you more before sending you off to get some magical artifact.”

“The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller,” Ja’kir says. “And J-I did learn how to Shout!” Aela cracks a grin.

“That you did,” Aela agrees, and looks around. “No pilgrims nearby, so if you wanted to practice…” It’s clear what she means, and while in any other case Ja’kir would be a lot more cautious, in this one he likes Shouting too much to not leap at the chance.

“WULD!” Ja’kir Shouts instinctively, and suddenly finds himself far too close to an extremely sharp drop. His breath catches in his throat, and he takes a quick step back, then several more. “Divines, I… shouldn’t have-”

“Just keep an eye on where you’re pointed and you should be fine, kid,” Aela deadpans. “I’m not explaining how you Shouted yourself off a mountain.” Ja’kir’s ears go flat, and he takes another uneasy step away from the edge. Truthfully, Shouting scares him, just like all magic does, but at the same time…

“WULD!”

...it makes him feel like nothing else ever has, like he can do anything, like he could take on the world. When he Shouts, he can almost believe that he’s truly an equal to dragons. Apparently he has a dragon’s soul, and a dragon’s blood, and he can talk in the language of dragons… so does that technically make him a dragon?

This time, Ja’kir thought before he Shouted, and angled his body away from the edge. Unfortunately for him, he was facing a little too far away from the edge. The Dragonborn, legendary warrior and all that, just slammed face-first into a solid rock wall, much to Aela’s amusement.

“And here I was thinking that accompanying the Dragonborn might get boring,” she mutters at one point, but she’s smiling, and so is Ja’kir. Even if his face hurts, that alone makes it and everything else worth it. It’s then that he realizes what this means, what she means to him, and time seems to stop around him.

Divines no, this can’t be happening, Ja’kir thinks bitterly, and forces himself to think on things he’d much rather forget. Like what happened last time he allowed himself… to… to love.

 

This is ridiculous.

 

This one is… definitely in love. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiit.

 

Really. I never would have noticed.

 

This one can’t go through this again…! Not after… not after…

 

Get ahold of yourself, Dovahkiin. You are a dragon. Act like it.

 

But this one isn’t a dragon!

 

Clearly. You don’t have a shred of self-confidence, and it would be almost pitiful if you hadn’t somehow managed to kill me. With help. A lot of help. So forgive me for being a little bitter.

 

Wait… you’re the dragon from the tower?

 

Mirmulnir.

 

And you’re just… inside this one’s head now?

 

Apparently. I’m just as surprised as you are. I was under the impression that dragons whose souls were absorbed simply ceased to exist. Or who knows? Maybe you skipped a step.

 

“Hello? You in there?” Aela’s asking, waving a hand in front of Ja’kir’s face. He nearly falls over from surprise, and quickly begins stammering an apology. “That’s a yes. You feeling okay? You just… stopped.” Ja’kir nods. Even though it’s not technically a lie because he’s not actually speaking, he still feels terrible about it.

“Sorry, this o- I’m sorry, I was just… thinking,” Ja’kir says quickly, and Aela shrugs.

“If you say so. I’m thinking we’ll stay the night in Ivarstead, and if we’re lucky we’ll make it to Morthal by tomorrow night,” Aela muses aloud, and Ja’kir’s so incredibly relieved that her attention’s off him, at least for now. “Then we should be able to find Ustengrav the next morning. If Arngeir’s markings were at all accurate, it shouldn’t take us too long.” Ja’kir nods, and pretends to understand what she’s talking about.

“Alright,” he says quietly, and while he would have continued Shouting his way down the mountain at this point, his heart’s not really in it. Not anymore. Maybe it will be tomorrow.

---

 “Well, here we are: Ustengrav,” Aela mutters, nocking an arrow to her bow with a grimace. “Home to bandits, mages, and quite possibly a whole horde of Draugr. What are we waiting for?”

That’s the spirit! Mirmulnir says approvingly, and Ja’kir tries to ignore him. I must say, you have good taste, dov or no.

Leave me alone, Ja’kir thinks as he unsheathes his daggers.

As you wish.

“Let’s go,” Ja’kir says, and once again he’s so immensely grateful that it’s Aela with him on this, because the vast majority of Jorrvaskr is terrible at sneaking about. Of course, he’s immensely grateful for other reasons, but he’s been trying unsuccessfully to ignore those for the past few days.

The two creep in, Ja’kir with daggers and Aela with bow, and considering how skilled both of them are with their respective weapons it shouldn’t come as a surprise that neither the bandits nor the novice necromancer attempting to raise the bandits to protect her did much in the way of keeping them out. Of course, it was only when they got in there that something started to seem… off.

“Someone’s been through here before us,” Aela whispers at one point, and for once it’s Ja’kir’s turn to stare at her like she’s crazy. “Someone with some skill with a blade, light on their feet, and clearly has some formal training but isn’t above sneaking about.” Ja’kir’s still staring, and now even more confused.

“How do you know all that?” He whispers back, except it’s then that a draugr behind them awakens, and their attention’s quickly taken up by that.

“Bandits wouldn’t come this far in, and if it were mages that killed all these dead draugr we keep coming across, there would be scorch marks, and instead they’ve been all sliced up. Whoever this is attempted to sneak in and out, and killed anyone who noticed them.”

“...how do you know all that.”

Aela flashes him a wolfish grin, and Ja’kir has to remind himself that he needs to not do this right now or maybe ever thank you.

“They call me ‘Aela the Huntress’ for a reason.”

Unfortunately for Ja’kir, that cryptic explanation seemed to be all the explanation he was getting, and while he figured part of it was probably connected to her being a werewolf, he wasn’t about to ask. It was painfully obvious that someone had indeed been through here before them, and whoever it was had left just enough draugr alive to pose a challenge. As if that wasn’t bad enough, there were also the extremely Dragonborn-specific trials, like the gates - oh Divines the gates. It was probably a good thing that he’d spent a little too much time practicing Whirlwind Sprint, because the gates.

He’d hoped that whoever had been going through the ruins would have been stopped at the gates, and indeed all signs of the tomb being disturbed stopped, right up until the end. Right up until someone left a note for the Dragonborn. A written one. Explaining where to go next. And Aela thought he'd read it.

If Ja’kir hadn’t already been convinced that the Divines were sadists, this pretty much sealed the deal.

Chapter 12: Back to Riverwood

Summary:

Remember when Ja'kir thought he'd never be coming back to Riverwood in Chapter 4? Yeah, right. He's already been back several times as part of the Companions alone. Also, a certain innkeeper is going to be in for the shock of her life when she finds out that the socially-awkward Khajiit that's been in a few times over the past month is actually the Dragonborn.

“So, where are we going?” Aela asks, and Ja’kir wordlessly passes over the paper. She reads it quickly. “Oh, Riverwood? Alright. Why didn’t you say so?” Ja’kir shrugs, and tries to make the action seem easy, not forced. She can’t know the truth. Nobody can know the truth.

 

What, you can’t read? Big deal. Lots of people can’t read.

 

But… lots of people can. Including her.

 

“This one- I- uh,” Ja’kir stammers, trying to think of something, anything… “The innkeeper there doesn’t trust this one. At all.” Aela raises an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s going to be a problem,” Aela murmurs, “but okay. You want me to handle the talking to her, then?” Ja’kir nods enthusiastically.

“Please, J-I can’t… she’s... intimidating.”

“Well, I’m intimidating, and you can talk to me most of the time,” Aela says, and suddenly it’s like Ja’kir’s face is on fire. It’s not the first time he’s incredibly glad his fur exists, and it won’t be the last, either. “But don’t worry, I’ve got your back. We’ve got a long way to go, anyway… actually, we could probably stop by Jorrvaskr tonight if you wanted-”

“No!” Ja’kir blurts out, and instantly regrets it for more reasons than one. “This- I mean- everything’s just been… different, since… you know… since the dragon…”

 

Excuse you, I have a name.

 

“Since the Greybeards called the Dragonborn and it turned out to be you,” Aela guesses. Ja’kir nods. “Look, I know I can’t understand what you’re dealing with, so I won’t try. Just know that whatever happens… you’re still a Companion. You’re still a shield-brother, and we’re all here for you. Got it?” Ja’kir nods again.

“Got it,” Ja’kir says in a small voice. “Thanks.” Aela grins.

“No problem, kid. And hey, if you don’t really want to face anybody right now, that’s fine. If you don’t mind traveling for some time after dark, we can probably make it to Riverwood tonight. I’ve got a couple of torches.”

Ja’kir’s eyes go wide, and he grins. He can’t remember the last time it wasn’t out of something other than happiness.

“Keep them,” Ja’kir says proudly. “This one can see in the dark.” Aela raises an eyebrow.

“Run that by me again?”

“This one- I can see in the dark,” Ja’kir repeats with a shrug. “It’s a Khajiit thing.”

---

“Hey, Ja’kir,” Aela says suddenly. Ja’kir instantly freezes. “Something I’ve been wondering about - no, nothing bad, just curious. Calm down.” Ja’kir nods, and keeps moving, but he’s still certainly on edge. Then again, when is he not on edge?

“Alright,” says Ja’kir, glancing back at the group of bandits they’d run into - or what’s left of them after he and Aela were done with them, anyway - with more than a bit of confusion in his gaze. “What is it?” Naturally, Ja’kir instantly begins thinking of possibilities, all of them negative, because that’s just the kind of person he is.

 

What if she knows what happened in Cyrodiil? What if she thinks I’m a terrible warrior - she wouldn’t be wrong, actually, I suck - and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore? What if she knows I can’t read? What if she knows I like her as more than a friend? What if-

 

Dovahkiin, for the love of all you hold dear and all you do not, shut up.

 

“I’m not really sure how to say this, and let me know if I’m coming across as offensive,” Aela says uncertainly - that’s a first, “but… is there a reason you don’t talk like any other Khajiit I’ve ever come across?” Ja’kir’s blood runs cold. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

 

It could be worse. She could know what happened in Cyrodiil. What did happen in Cyrodiil, anyway?

 

Ja’kir does his best to ignore the dragon currently taking up residence in his head, and returns his focus to the task at hand. He immediately wishes he hadn’t, because Divines no this can’t be happening-

“J-I, um, yes,” Ja’kir stammers, “there… there is?” Even as he says the words, he's desperately hoping that she won't ask for specifics, even as he knows she will. But… it's not like he can say the truth, can he?

 

Oh yes, this one doesn't talk like other Khajiit because he's not like other Khajiit, because he's not a thief or an assassin and because he wishes he were anything but this!

 

Give yourself some credit, Dovahkiin. You certainly could, and should, say the truth. Also, you couldn't lie if you tried, so there’s that.

 

“Look, kid, if you don't want to explain, you don't have to,” Aela says finally, and Ja’kir’s far more relieved than he probably should be. “Just know that I’m here for you. We’re all here for you. Got it?” Ja’kir nods quickly. He doesn't look at Aela, because his vision is beginning to blur with tears and Divines is he a mess…

“Thank you,” Ja’kir says quietly, and he means it.

---

“J-I don't talk like other Khajiit because this one- because I don't want to be like other Khajiit,” Ja’kir whispers. For a few moments he thinks Aela hasn't heard him, and he thinks that might not be such a bad thing considering… well, everything. It might have taken him hours to convince himself that this was a good idea, but it only took a matter of seconds for that false confidence to evaporate.

“What was that?” Aela asks, and Ja’kir can tell from the concern in her voice that she heard him. He sighs, and his ears lie flat.

“...this one doesn’t talk- I don’t talk like other Khajiit because I’m not- I don’t… I don’t want to be like other Khajiit,” Ja’kir chokes out, and damn is it a million times harder the second time. He takes a shaky breath, and slowly lets it out. “That’s… that’s it. Sorry.”

Aela doesn’t speak for a while, and that’s fine, because Ja’kir wouldn’t have had the courage to respond anyway. He tries not to panic, tries not to think of all the terrible ways she could react to this alone - and she doesn’t even know the half of what he’s really keeping hidden. Somehow, Ja’kir gets the feeling that he’s not supposed to be keeping a lot hidden from his shield-siblings… who is he kidding, he’s been doing that the entire time.

They don’t even know this one’s real name.

“Kid- Ja’kir, listen,” she says at last, and his heart sinks. “As far as I know, you have nothing to be sorry for.” She’s probably trying to be encouraging, but that of course only makes Ja’kir feel even worse.

...as far as you know...

“But I don’t know everything about you, and that’s a good thing,” Aela continues. “Everyone has secrets. So maybe you do have something to be sorry for, maybe you don’t. But you should try to accept who you are, because you can’t really change that.

"So if you’re trying to talk differently from other Khajiit because that’s what you want, great, please continue. But if you’re doing it because you think it’s what other people want, don’t bother. Just be yourself, alright?”

Ja’kir nods, and doesn’t speak again until they reach Riverwood.

---

“Long time no see,” Aela greets as the two walk into the Sleeping Giant Inn of Riverwood. The innkeeper nods stiffly. “Haven’t been on a job here in ages, honestly.” The innkeeper nods again.

“Are the two of you here on a job?” The innkeeper asks, eyeing Ja’kir suspiciously, and he tries not to flinch under her gaze. He also fails, because she’s more terrifying than Njada when she's drunk. “Or… something else?”

“It’s… a really long story,” Aela says with a shrug. “But we’re going to need the attic room. Or he is, anyway.” Ja’kir nods quickly, and is extremely glad that she could actually read the letter, because he doubts whoever stole the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller was expecting the Dragonborn to… not be able to.

“We don’t have an attic room,” the innkeeper says, and Ja’kir’s eyes go wide in either shock, sadness, or a strange combination of the two. “But I think I know what you mean. The two of you can have the one on the left. Make yourself at home.” Ja’kir’s still staring when Aela grabs him by the arm and basically hauls him into the room she’d indicated.

“There’s- there’s no attic room,” Ja’kir whispers, trying desperately not to panic. “What are we supposed to do now?” Aela shrugs, and takes a seat on the bed.

“Wait?” Aela suggests. “The thief probably had us ask for the attic room for a reason.” Ja’kir nods.

“Right,” Ja’kir agrees, hoping desperately that this isn’t a dead end. He really doesn’t want to have to go back to the Greybeards and explain what happened. He really doesn’t want to have to go back to the Greybeards period, but he doesn’t have a choice in that. Then again, he might not have a choice in this, either.

All of a sudden, the door opens. Ja’kir reaches for his daggers, ready to fight, and only calms down a little when he sees it’s the innkeeper.

“So you’re the Dragonborn I’ve been hearing so much about,” she says, and Ja’kir could have laughed if he wasn’t so terrified because what were the odds? “I think you’re looking for this.” She passes over some sort of horn to Aela, whose eyes go wide. She nearly drops it.

“We need to talk,” the innkeeper continues. “Follow me. You, stay here. This doesn’t concern you.” It takes Ja’kir a second to realize that she’s mistaken Aela for being the actual Dragonborn, and in that second Aela’s figured it out too.

“This is really getting old,” Aela mutters as she hands off the horn - no, the Horn - to Ja’kir. “I’m not the Dragonborn, he is, and I’m just here to keep him from getting himself killed.” The innkeeper looks surprised, then nods.

“A Khajiit? Well… I suppose the gods do work in mysterious ways,” the innkeeper muses aloud, and something about the way she says it makes Ja’kir’s blood boil. Maybe it was having to go halfway across Skyrim for something that wasn’t even there. Maybe it was the fact that she left a note, and couldn’t have just waited there for him to show up. Maybe it was something else entirely.

“Yes, they do,” Ja’kir says, narrowing his eyes, and for the first time in far too long not watching his words. It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. “This one is a Khajiit. Do you have a problem with that?” The innkeeper shakes her head.

“Not at all, any Dragonborn is a good Dragonborn, and I’ll take what I can get,” the innkeeper says, “but both of you, follow me. We need to talk somewhere more private.” She leaves, and Aela looks to Ja’kir.

“Your call,” Aela says, making no move to get up yet. “You’re the Dragonborn. We could probably head back up to High Hrothgar at this point, or we could see what she wants.” Ja’kir thinks on this for a moment.

“Ja’kir thinks we might as well see what she wants,” Ja’kir says, then frowns. “You… don’t mind-?”

“You talking like other Khajiit? Of course not!”

Ja’kir winces. “Actually, Ja’kir was asking if you minded seeing what she wanted.”

“Not really,” Aela says with a shrug, and gets up. “As I said, it’s your call. I’m just here to keep you in one piece.”

Ja’kir smiles at that, and does his best to ignore the warm fuzzy feeling in his heart. He doesn't entirely succeed.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and then moves to follow the innkeeper. He can hear Aela behind him. Ja’kir supposes… if nothing else, he’s glad to have someone he can trust through all this.

Chapter 13: Kynesgrove

Summary:

Ja'kir and Aela head to Kynesgrove with a new ally(?), but when they get there... things don't go according to plan, at all. Granted, when do things go according to plan?

“You know, if you’re going to make us go way out of our way to kill this dragon, the least you could do is give some sort of explanation,” Aela mutters as Ja’kir dispatches a wolf that’s made the mistake of attacking two Companions and an innkeeper that definitely is far more than she seems. Ja’kir looks to said innkeeper, who sheathes her own sword and says nothing. “Even a name would be nice.” The innkeeper groans.

“Fine,” she says flatly. “Delphine. While I really do hope he’s Dragonborn, if he’s not I can’t risk telling either of you any more than that.” The innkeeper - Delphine, apparently - continues down the road, and Aela and Ja’kir exchange looks.

“That’s… uh, something?” Ja’kir says with a shrug. Aela rolls her eyes in the general direction of Delphine’s backside.

“Something, sure,” Aela agrees without much hope in her words. “I’m beginning to think we’re wasting our time here. She already gave you the Horn, anyway.” Ja’kir shrugs.

“Ja’kir thinks that it’s worth seeing what she wants if nothing else,” Ja’kir replies unenthusiastically, “and this one is supposed to be killing dragons, anyway…” Aela shrugs.

“Kid, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you’re supposed to,” she says dryly, “and if I’m being completely honest, this ‘Delphine’ is doing a remarkably good job of pissing me off.” Ja’kir frowns.

“Aren’t you worried she’ll hear you?”

“Not really, no,” Aela says. “I wouldn’t be at all opposed to that. But hey, good news, if I remember the way to Kynesgrove at all, we’re almost there.”

---

“Lorkhan’s eyes, look at that big bastard!” Delphine whispers, drawing her sword. Ja’kir raises an eyebrow, because while the big black dragon circling the hill - sorry, dragon burial mound - is certainly big, Ja’kir can recall seeing one of similar size once before, back in Helgen. It looked rather similar, too, and- wait.

Size? Check.

Dark scales? Check.

Glimmering red eyes? Check.

“Quick question, have you actually fought a dragon before?” Aela asks in a low voice. Delphine glares at her. “Because both Ja’kir and I have, and we both nearly died. This was with half the Whiterun guard, too.” For a moment, Ja’kir thinks he sees something along the lines of uncertainty in Delphine’s eyes, but it vanishes as she shakes her head.

“No, but I know how to,” Delphine says. “We’ll have to ground it by aiming for the wings, and then go for weak points like the underbelly and the eyes.” Ja’kir, meanwhile, is still staring at the other dragon, and the longer he does so, the more sure he is that he’s seen this thing before, and he knows where.

“This was the dragon at Helgen,” Ja’kir whispers, unsheathing his daggers and getting strange looks from both Aela and Delphine.

“What?” Delphine says.

“You were at Helgen?” Aela asks. Ja’kir nods.

“Ja'kir was at Helgen,” Ja’kir says, with a quiet certainty to his words, “and this was the dragon that attacked. An entire regiment of legionnaires couldn’t stop it then.”

If an entire regiment of legionnaires couldn’t stop it at Helgen, then how are we supposed to stop it now?

“Well, congratulations,” Aela says dryly, with a glare in Delphine’s direction. “We’re all going to die.” Delphine scowls, but doesn’t rise to the bait.

“For now, let’s stay under cover, and see what it does,” Delphine says. “This is what we came for.” Ja’kir could disagree, considering that the whole reason she’d gotten him and Aela to go with her was to prove he was, in fact, the Dragonborn of legend. In fact, Aela’s gripping her bow a little too tightly, and he suspects that if she had a better plan, she would be completely disregarding what Delphine said right now.

The dragon stops circling, and lowers itself toward the mound, and all conversation ceases.

“ Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!” The dragon says, still hovering about ten feet above the ground, and Shouts. “SLEN TIID VO!”

Ja’kir watches in horror as the burial mound cracks open, and the skeleton of a dragon crawls out, but it doesn’t remain skeletal for long. Piece by piece, the dragon’s flesh and blood is forming anew, and within a matter of seconds, a completely normal-looking dragon is crouched there, regarding the big black dragon from Helgen curiously.

“Alduin, thuri,” greets the other, recently-resurrected dragon. “Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?”

“This is worse than I thought,” Delphine mutters beside him, but Ja’kir pays her no mind. He’s slightly more concerned with the dragons discussing Divines-know-what in their own language, and hoping against hope that they haven’t noticed they aren’t alone yet.

“Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir,” the big dragon greets, and then turns his head to look directly into Ja’kir’s eyes. The other follows his gaze, and Ja’kir freezes, but it’s far too late for that. The dragons know he’s there, and likely have for some time. “Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi.”

 

Alduin returns… but a little late, thuri. Krosis.

 

As usual, Ja’kir does his best to ignore the dragon still hanging out in his head, and as usual, he fails miserably.

 

Any chance you could… maybe, I don’t know, translate?

 

You don’t want to know what he called you.

 

“You do not even know our tongue, do you?” The dragon - Alduin, if the dragon still inside Ja’kir’s head is to be believed - says in Tamrielic. Ja’kir tries not to flinch. He also fails. “Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah.”

 

Alduin, thuri, pahlokaal los laat rot zu'u fund brah wah pelaak daar Dovahkiin. Aalkos... valkunstiid.

 

“Sahloknir,” Alduin continues, now addressing the other dragon once again, “krii daar joorre.” He flies off, and the other dragon faces them, stretching his wings before taking off.

 

If you were wondering, he just ordered Sahloknir to kill you all.

 

“I am Sahloknir,” the dragon growls, spreading his wings. “Hear my Voice and despair!” He takes to the skies, and Aela nocks an arrow to her bow, aiming for the wings.

“So what do we do now?” Ja’kir asks quietly.

“Kill the damn dragon!” Delphine exclaims, looking suspiciously like she wants to throw her sword at the dragon - Sahloknir. “Unless you have a better idea!?” Aela lets her arrow fly. Ja’kir doesn’t see where it landed, but if the roar of outrage that Sahloknir lets out is any indication, it didn’t land anywhere nice.

“Yeah, that,” Aela agrees without taking her eyes off the dragon. “Grounding it would probably be a good idea.” She fits another arrow to the string, and aims carefully as it circles around and flies towards them.

“FO KRAH DIIN!” Sahloknir Shouts, and instead of the fire Ja’kir is expecting, frost shoots out in a spray, towards them. Ja’kir takes a deep breath.

“FUS RO!” Ja’kir Shouts back, knocking the frost back at Sahloknir. While it doesn’t do much in the way of damage, it certainly annoys him, and he narrows his eyes. (The arrow from Aela that passes dangerously close to his left one likely doesn’t help things.)

“I see that mortals have become arrogant while I slept,” Sahloknir says, “but no matter. Dovahkiin! Your Voice is no match for mine!”

 

Sahloknir is a Frost Dragon, Mirmulnir says as another of Aela’s arrows tear into his wings. You will need fire to defeat him.

 

That’s… encouraging, seeing as neither Ja’kir nor Aela know anything of magic and Delphine hasn’t used any yet.

 

Repeat after me, Dovahkiin. YOL.

 

As Sahloknir circles around for another pass, this time far more warily and waiting before using his Frost Breath, Ja’kir mentally braces himself for what might happen.

“YOL!” Ja’kir Shouts, and while two words of Unrelenting Force only staggered Sahloknir, one word of whatever this is sends Sahloknir crashing to the frozen ground. Delphine leaps on him, and Ja’kir quickly follows suit, mentally thanking the dragon for the gift.

He doesn’t respond.

 

Dragon?

 

Mirmulnir…?

 

It’s as Ja’kir delivers the final blow, and Sahloknir collapses, that Ja’kir realizes that for the first time since that day at the Western Watchtower, he’s truly alone… but not for long. Ja’kir takes a deep breath, leaps off the dragon’s body, and begins to clean his daggers. He doesn’t look at Aela. He doesn’t look at Delphine. He definitely doesn’t look at Sahloknir.

“I'll be damned, you did it!” Delphine exclaims, and Ja’kir thinks he can actually hear an impressed note in her voice. “That was well done, even if… wait. Something’s happening. Gods above!” Jakir doesn’t turn to look, although he can’t say he isn’t curious. But… he didn’t see how he absorbed Mirmulnir’s soul.

He doesn’t need to see how he absorbs Sahloknir’s.

 

Well. Your Voice is strong… for a mortal.

 

Ja’kir doesn’t dignify Sahloknir with a response. Instead, he turns, and looks to Delphine, whose expression is a mixture of shock and curiosity, but Ja’kir isn’t particularly concerned with that right now. She’s got a lot of explaining to do.

“So you really are… I… damn, it’s true, isn’t it?” Delphine stammers. “You really are Dragonborn.” Ja’kir nods, and crosses his arms.

“I owe you some answers, don’t I?” She continues, and sighs. “Go ahead. Whatever you want to know. Nothing held back.” Ja’kir has a ton of questions, but one comes to mind first, and he’s damn well going to ask it first.

“Who are you... really?” Ja’kir asks, kind of expecting some sort of evasive half-answer. However, he can tell Delphine isn’t about to lie her way out of this from the look in her eyes when they meets his.

“I'm one of the last members of the Blades,” she says, and all of a sudden the way Aela regards her becomes a lot more respectful. “A very long time ago, the Blades were dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer. For the last two hundred years, since the last Dragonborn emperor, the Blades have been searching for a purpose. Now that dragons are coming back, our purpose is clear again. We need to stop them."

“The Blades?” Ja’kir asks, confused. He thinks he heard the name somewhere before, but he couldn’t say where, and he definitely can’t place it. “Who are they?” Delphine opens her mouth to speak, but Aela beats her to it.

“Kid, you lived in Cyrodiil. How have you not heard of the Blades?” Aela asks, and Ja’kir tries not to shrink away from her, from Delphine, from everything.

“I’m surprised you have,” Delphine says dryly, rescuing the situation. “We were disbanded after the Great War, and neither of you look old enough to have been around back then.” Neither does Delphine, actually, although Ja’kir supposes he’s not good with ages, but that still begs the question: how old is she?

“My mother fought in the Great War,” Aela says. “She always told me that the Blades were the best of the best.” Delphine almost smiles.

“Your mother wouldn’t be wrong,” Delphine says. “I’m guessing she told you what happened to us, as well?” Aela nods.

“One of the conditions of the peace treaty was the disbandment of the Blades,” Aela says softly. “But by the end of the war, it was only a formality.” It suddenly hits Ja’kir that while Aela’s very clearly proud to be a Companion, she might have wanted to be a Blade instead, if she’d had the option. But she hadn’t.

“Correct,” Delphine says, and while she’s looking at Ja’kir, somehow he gets the feeling that she’s thinking of something else entirely, someone else entirely. “The only way I’ve survived this long is out of sheer dumb luck, and I don't know of anyone else who hasn't been caught and killed by now."

Chapter 14: A Gift of a Curse

Summary:

Fourteen chapters in, and he's finally a werewolf. We'll see how his feelings about the beast blood go. For now, though... for now he's definitely got lycanthropy, and I'm trying not to think of how that works for a Khajiit. I'll figure it out, or Ja'kir will, at least. Assuming he survives the beast blood and his first turning...

Unfortunately, while Delphine could go on and on about dragons and how terrible they were for hours on end, in the end she was just as clueless as Ja’kir and Aela about why and how they were being brought back. In the end, they parted ways for the time being, with a promise from Delphine that she’d get in touch as soon as she found something. Ja’kir and Aela returned to High Hrothgar with the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, and after Ja’kir learned another word of Unrelenting Force - DAH - he figured it was high time to return to Jorrvaskr. In truth… he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. He hadn’t really talked to anyone before setting off for High Hrothgar, except for Kodlak and Aela.

“Go,” Kodlak said with a smile, patting Ja’kir on the shoulder encouragingly. “Bring honor to yourself and to the Companions, Ja’kir. Fulfill your destiny.” Ja’kir actually grinned, and nodded enthusiastically. He could do this, and he would do this!

While everyone treated him at least a little differently, it wasn’t quite as much as Ja’kir was expecting. Sure, Vilkas was significantly less of an ass, and Kodlak seemed to be paying a lot more attention to him, but compared to the looks he was getting from just about everyone outside the Companions, it was… a nice change. Not that Ja’kir spent much time outside Jorrvaskr to begin with, but still.

A week passed, and then another, with no word from Delphine. Ja’kir went on jobs, as did the others, and while life seemed relatively normal… he noticed things. Like how Skjor and Aela weren’t talking as much with Kodlak and Vilkas, or really at all. Then there was Farkas, clearly trying his best to fix things, but unfortunately his best wasn’t anywhere near enough. Aela and Skjor weren’t even speaking to Vilkas anymore, and both of them talked to Kodlak as little as possible.

All of the whelps were wondering what was going on, but only Ja’kir had any idea what it was. While it was entirely possible that it was something different, like maybe the civil war still going on (although things were at a standstill last Ja’kir heard), Ja’kir was reasonably certain that the disagreement here was something to do with lycanthropy, and being werewolves. That stuff.

He never was sure, though, not until Aela directed him in Skjor’s direction one evening, just after Ja’kir got back from a job in Eastmarch. Ria had been with him on the job, but she was long gone by the time Ja’kir was cornered, not that his answer would have differed all that much if she had been there.

“Skjor,” Ja’kir greets as he pushes open the door to the older warrior’s room, albeit cautiously. Extremely cautiously. He hasn’t forgotten Torvar’s story about nearly walking in on him masturbating once. (Of course, Njada still swears up and down that Aela was in there and they were fucking, but Ja’kir doesn’t really want to know if those two are actually involved or not.) The warrior in question has his back to the door, and he turns to face Ja’kir surprisingly quickly and quietly for the amount of armor he’s wearing.

“Ja’kir,” Skjor says with a curt nod. “We don’t have much time, so I’ll be blunt. Kodlak thinks we need another member of the Circle, and his first choice is you.” Ja’kir simply stares at him for a moment, because what is he supposed to say to that? He certainly doesn’t know, and this is so completely out of the blue that he’s completely lost. Ja’kir would have thought Skjor was joking, except that if he’s learned anything through his time as a Companion, it’s that Skjor never jokes.

“What?” Ja’kir says finally, still disbelieving. Skjor nods, glances to the door, and hesitates briefly. After a moment, he seems satisfied, and clears his throat.

“Look, we all know that you know we’re werewolves, Farkas told us he told you,” Skjor says. “It’s possible that Kodlak has his eye on you because of that. After all, there are four of us in the Circle, five if you count him. And… we’re having a bit of a disagreement at the moment.”

“On the werewolf thing,” Ja’kir guesses, and Skjor raises an eyebrow. “You and Aela are one side. Kodlak and Vilkas are the other.” Normally, he wouldn’t be so confident in this, except that he’s been having to deal with this rift on a daily basis and is the only uninvolved one who knows what’s up. After a moment, Skjor nods.

“And Farkas hasn’t picked a side,” Skjor agrees. “Kodlak is looking for a cure. If he finds one, both he and Vilkas will purge themselves of the beast blood. Farkas likely will follow his brother in the end. However, Aela and I… we’re different from them.”

Despite not following very clearly, Ja’kir nods, and that’s apparently enough for Skjor. He crosses his arms and continues.

“Kodlak will want to know where you stand on the blood,” Skjor says. “If you choose to not take it, to remain ‘clean’, he’ll have a majority.” Ja’kir stares at him, still confused.

“Okay,” Ja’kir agrees. “What does having a majority help with?” Skjor sighs, and shakes his head.

“Nothing, I hope,” Skjor says, “but I wouldn’t put it past Kodlak to insist that Aela and I cure ourselves as well, to keep us all… ‘clean’.” He says the word with an extreme amount of distaste. Ja’kir opens his mouth to say something, then realizes he really has nothing to say, nothing to add, and closes it.

“You don’t have to make a choice yet,” Skjor says at last. “If you’re on our side, meet me by the Underforge after dark, tonight, and you will receive our gift.” He grins, and claps Ja’kir on the shoulder. “In the end, it’s your choice, but I’ll be there all night. You don’t get much sleep with the beast blood… but in my opinion, that’s a small price to pay.”

With that, he leaves for the main room, leaving Ja’kir to think, and to make a choice.

In the end, though… in the end, his choice was made long before Skjor asked the question, and that night, he finds himself outside, looking for Skjor. Despite the fact that he has no idea where the Underforge is, he finds Skjor fairly quickly.

“This one’s choice is made,” Ja’kir says with all the confidence he can muster, looking Skjor in the eyes. Skjor looks almost surprised, then grins, and claps Ja’kir on the shoulder.

“Looks like I owe Aela a drink,” he says wryly, “but that can wait. For now, follow me.” He feels for a certain place on the rock, and presses in. The rock moves away, and Skjor goes in. After a moment’s hesitation, Ja’kir follows, and is greeted by two things: Skjor, and a werewolf. The werewolf doesn’t look particularly hostile. In fact, it looks almost friendly, and Ja’kir could swear he’s seen those eyes somewhere before…

The werewolf tilts its head, almost like a dog, and all of a sudden it hits Ja’kir just who this is.

“Is that…” Ja’kir begins, eyes wide, and Skjor chuckles. “Aela?” The werewolf nods slowly, and looks to Skjor.

“I forget you haven’t seen us transformed,” Skjor says. “In time, you will be able to identify anyone by their scent, even those without the beast blood. But for now… are you ready?” Ja’kir takes a deep breath, and nods.

What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?

“Ja’kir’s ready,” he says firmly, and he means it. “This one is ready.” His gaze meets Skjor’s, and without Skjor’s eyes leaving his, the older warrior grasps Aela’s arm with one hand and pulls a dagger out with the other. In one fluid motion, he makes a cut, and while Ja’kir would be worried and freaking out right about now, neither of them seem to be freaking out, so… so neither will he.

“You may not survive this,” Skjor warns, and Ja’kir’s heart sinks. “If you’re still truly ready to partake of the blood of the beast, the blood calls, and waits for you to drink of this fountain.” Aela’s blood has dripped into the thing, and Ja’kir gulps. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out. He takes another deep breath, and lets it out.

“This one is still ready,” Ja’kir says, and leans in. From the moment the beast blood touches his lips, he can tell something’s changed within him. Of course, he’s only aware of it for a matter of seconds, right up until his vision goes dark.

---

BLOOD

STONE

CAVERN

PACK

HERE

LEAVE

CAVE

SKY

SKY

SKY

MOON

SKY

AIR

FREE

SKY

STARS

PACK

PACK

PACK

MOON

SKY

BLOOD

SCENT

SNOW

SKY

SCENT

HERE

HERE

PREY

SNOW

STONE

PREY

NEAR

PREY

PREY

PREY

HUNT

HUNT

HUNT

PREY

PREY

PREY

HUNT

HUNT

HUNT

Chapter 15: The Silver Hand

Summary:

As if this chapter wasn't already hard enough for me to write, I went to see Infinity War today, and I am pissed. But yeah, apparently today is Angst Day for me. Fun times. But hey, Ja'kir's a werewolf now, and what do you know? More backstory! That's not necessarily a good thing when the backstory is horribly tragic, though...

When Ja’kir comes to, he's suddenly painfully aware of the fact that he's 1) lying on the cold hard ground somewhere in the wilderness, 2) lying on the cold hard ground somewhere in the wilderness wearing nothing but a threadbare blanket, and 3) Aela’s sitting on a fallen tree nearby, maybe reapplying her warpaint. Her back’s to him, and Ja’kir figures that's definitely a good thing, because he'd be a bright red without his fur already, and he doesn't need to be any more embarrassed right now.

This one is a werewolf now, Ja’kir reminds himself. This one can and will be brave. Fortunately, his armor’s nearby, along with his pack, and… wait. Either Skjor or Aela had to have grabbed that if he'd lost it when he transformed, and since Skjor is nowhere around… that must mean Aela knew this would happen, and-

The fur around his face burns as Ja’kir realizes that, more likely than not, Aela saw him without any clothes on. And… presumably wasn't all that bothered by it. As usual, he's immensely relieved for his fur, because without it he'd definitely be as red as a snowberry by now.

Once he's more or less finished panicking, he grabs his armor and slips it on more or less silently. Then come his boots, bracers, and helmet. Especially the helmet, which might not have been made for a Khajiit, but sore ears are a small price to pay for living to fight another day. Now that he’s… more or less outfitted, he figures it's about time to face the horker in the room, so to speak. Silently, he takes a seat on the fallen tree next to Aela. After a few moments, she glances over.

“Oh, good, you survived,” Aela remarks. She puts the finishing touches on her warpaint, then stands, and offers Ja’kir a hand. He takes it without thinking. “Really, though, you gave us more trouble than Farkas at his first turning, and that's saying something.” Ja’kir nods.

“Ja’kir didn't… do anything, did he?” Ja’kir asks quietly, because while his memories of what happened are fuzzy at best, he distinctly remembers launching himself at someone. Aela shrugs.

“You didn't kill anyone, if that's what you're asking,” Aela says, and it's like a weight is lifted off Ja’kir’s shoulders. What she says next, on the other hand, shoves most of it right back on. “You gave a couple of the Battle-Borns a good thrashing, though.” Ja’kir winces. This is what he was afraid of.

This one… may have made a mistake.

“Where's Skjor?” Ja’kir asks, trying desperately to keep his mind off what he’d done. Aela nods to an old fort not too far away.

“Inside,” Aela says, confirming Ja’kir’s suspicions. “It’s a Silver Hand hideout. Skjor went in to scout ahead. We’re going to go screw with them. You want to come?” Ja’kir’s first instinct is to say no, but then he remembers Dustman’s Cairn. He remembers how the Silver Hand would have killed Farkas, simply because he was a werewolf, with no regard at all for how honorable he actually was.

“Yes,” Ja’kir hears himself say.

---

If Ja’kir didn’t like the Silver Hand before, he completely despises them now. Literally the only difference between them and bandits is that they (supposedly) only go after werewolves, and Ja’kir nearly threw up the first time he encountered what the Silver Hand had instead of hostages.

“There’s a dead one, isn’t there,” Aela guesses as she comes in, seeing Ja’kir staring in horror at the werewolf corpse that looks an awful lot like it died in agony. Ja’kir nods numbly. “Thought so. Nobody we know, by the smell. Let’s keep moving.” She presses on, and while she doesn’t seem particularly affected, Ja’kir notices that she is making a point of not looking at the dead werewolf’s body, or anywhere in that general direction.

“You can identify people by smell?” Ja’kir asks, running to catch up. Aela only smirks.

“Not everyone,” she says. “Other wolves. Give it enough time, and you’ll be able to do the same. Distance makes it harder, as does physical barriers like walls or being underground. For example… I can only faintly pick up Skjor, but you’re right next to me.”

“What does Ja’kir smell like?”

Aela stops at this, and frowns. “A lot of things. It’s… not easy to describe, but there’s usually one overriding scent. For Skjor, it’s iron. I can’t pick up myself, but I’ve been told I smell vaguely of the woods. And you…” She has to think on this. “Still a lot of different scents in there, but I’m pretty sure yours is ash.”

Ash…

Ja’kir’s thoughts immediately go to a certain Shout, one of the more recent ones he’d learned. Yol. Fire Breath. And while he knows all too well that dragons certainly don’t just breathe fire, they can breathe frost, too, he also knows that when most people think of a dragon, they think of said dragon breathing fire.

“Shouldn’t we have found Skjor by now?” Ja’kir asks suddenly, changing the subject before he can begin mentally cursing the fact that he’s the damn Dragonborn once again. “How big is this fort, anyway?” Aela shrugs.

“It extends pretty far underground, I think,” Aela says, “and while I’m a little worried, Skjor can take care of himself. Unless… well, let’s hope she’s not here, because if she’s here we’ve got bigger problems.” She holds up a hand for Ja’kir to stop, fits an arrow to her bow, and dispatches one of the Silver Hand patrolling.

“Who?” Ja’kir asks quietly after Aela’s dispatched the other. For a moment, he wishes he could use a bow, and then he remembers what happened the last time he tried and is extremely glad he can’t. That, and with Aela picking off the enemies from afar, they don’t even have a chance to draw their (silver) weapons, which is good.

But in all seriousness, why are the silver weapons necessary?

“One of their leaders, Imperial named Krev. They call her ‘the Skinner’,” Aela explains, and Ja’kir nearly drops his daggers. “I don’t think I need to tell you why.” Ja’kir nods, and internally winces, because him facing off an Imperial wielding silver weapons is a recipe for disaster on his part. Never mind that Ja’kir is actually a surprisingly decent cook.

“You don’t,” Ja’kir says in a small voice, tail lashing back and forth as he creeps behind Aela. Fortunately, she’s too focused to notice how terrified he is right now, and as they round a corner, she stops so suddenly that Ja’kir nearly slams into her from behind.

“That’s Krev alright,” Aela whispers, then squints in the direction of what appears to be the final chamber of the fort. Gallows Rock, if Ja’kir remembers the name Aela offhandedly mentioned right after they got in correctly. “And… something’s wrong. I hope I’m wrong about this, but we need to fight. Come on!” She puts away her bow, takes out her dagger and shield, and charges in, leaving Ja’kir with no choice but to follow.

“So glad you could join us,” Krev says without looking, drawing her (silver) greatsword, because of course it’s silver. Of course she even sounds kind of like Saevus, minus the fact that Saevus was in Cyrodiil and was a man, not a woman, and is completely and utterly dead, and can’t possibly be here. “It’s a pity you’re too late to save your friend. Someone should tell him to not come running in on his own. Oh, wait.” She turns, and Ja’kir is greeted by a face that looks far too similar to Saevus to be an accident.

“Shoot, then,” Saevus taunts, sheathing his shiny silver sword with a sly smirk, pressing ever closer until the arrow stabs the pale flesh of his throat. Jacoban’s heart races, and despite himself, despite knowing that it’s now or never, he hesitates. “I dare you.” Saevus enunciates each and every word, and Jacoban cringes, but it’s now or never.

He releases the arrow, and for a moment it’s worth it, just to see the look of shock on the man’s face as the blood spurts forth like a crimson fountain from the wound in his throat, but only for a moment. As Saevus falls to the ground, lifeless, and as the light leaves his eyes, the gravity of what Jacoban’s just done fully hits him. He’s a murderer. He, Jacoban, is a murderer, and he hates it.

J ust as quickly, the smell of smoke becomes unbearable, and Jacoban realizes that now is not the time to break down over his lost morality, because most of the manor is burning by now, including the kitchens.

Aless is in the kitchens.

“Aless!” The Khajiit screams, dropping the bow like it’s set his hands on fire and racing back inside, into the kitchens, through the (actual) fire and the flames. He coughs, choking on the thick, black smoke, and is forced to drop to his knees to even breathe. “Where are you!?” He searches, and searches, even when he knows it’s hopeless. If there was hope, Aless would have answered.

The only answer Jacoban receives is the crackling of the fire and a pain in his chest that increases with every passing second.

Even though Jacoban knows he has to leave to save himself, he almost can’t bring himself to, because he might as well be dead. Everything he lived for already is, and yet somehow, he does. Somehow, he drags himself out, past Saevus’ lifeless corpse, and into the streets. Somehow, the guards don’t implicate him in Saevus’ murder, and somehow, he escapes the city.

A pained cry from Aela brings Ja’kir out of his memories and back to the present, where Aela is apparently taking on all three of the Silver Hand (including Krev) at once… and losing. Ja’kir watches her drop to one knee, and hold up her shield in a desperate attempt to keep up the fight. A heavy blow from Krev sends it skittering across the floor, well out of her reach, and within a matter of seconds, Krev’s (silver) greatsword is poised dangerously close to Aela’s neck.

Ja’kir knows he has to move, now, or they’ll both die. He couldn’t save Aless, but he might be able to save Aela. And yet… somehow, he knows it’s hopeless, just like it was then. Somehow, he knows there’s nothing he can do, and a small part of him doesn’t even want to try. That part of him wants to run, and while Ja’kir knows he could escape now if he ran…

“Any last words, wolf?” Krev asks coldly.

 ...he’d never be able to face the Companions again, any of them. He’d be doomed to be on the run again, forever, with the knowledge that he couldn’t keep anyone safe. Not Aless, not Aela, nobody. No one.

  ...never again.

Something within Ja’kir snaps. He stands without thinking, opens his mouth without thinking, Shouts without thinking.

“FUS RO DAH!”

Krev goes flying into the wall above Aela, who fortunately has the sense to duck and roll out of the way. As luck would have it, Krev doesn’t move again, although Ja’kir isn’t certain whether it’s good luck or bad luck. Her two accomplices turn, drawing their weapons, and Ja’kir shifts his grip on his own.

“You messed with the wrong werewolves today,” Ja’kir whispers, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut that it wasn’t actually the Silver Hand that was the aggressors this time. He charges, heading for the one on the left first, and one of his daggers finds a weak spot in his armor. The other finds his throat, and Ja’kir pulls both out and whirls around for the last one.

“Please don’t kill me,” the last one pleads, scrambling back, dropping his (silver) sword. He’s a Redguard, and he looks as terrified as Ja’kir probably did less than a minute ago. “Please… I-I didn’t know what… I didn’t know!”

“Get out of here,” Ja’kir says coldly, “before Ja’kir changes his mind.” The Redguard nods, grabs his sword, and runs for the door. Ja’kir doesn’t pay him any more mind, instead going for Aela, and extending a hand.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says quietly as she takes it and gets to her feet, nodding to another corpse on the ground, one Ja’kir hadn’t seen before, but one that he now recognizes all too well. “The bastards… somehow, they killed Skjor.” Ja’kir stares, shocked, and his vision begins to swim with tears as memories of him come flooding to the surface, but he can't do this, not now, not here, not now...

“Divines, this one… Ja’kir’s sorry,” Ja’kir whispers, now regretting letting the Redguard leave. Aela gives him a sad smile.

“Don’t be. We… were too late anyway. He should not have come here alone.” Aela blinks hard. “Ja’kir. I need you to head back to Jorrvaskr, and tell Kodlak that Skjor’s… gone. Whiterun’s not far southwest of here. I’ll meet you back there… eventually. I just need some time.” Ja’kir nods quickly, and moves to leave.

The Silver Hand hideout is deserted now, and there’s no sign of the Redguard Ja’kir let live. Ja’kir wonders, momentarily, if maybe, just maybe, he listened.

Despite everything, Ja’kir sincerely hopes he did.

---

“Skjor is… dead?” Kodlak asks softly, nothing but concern in his eyes. Ja’kir nods numbly, and while he’s expecting surprise, even anger, he’s definitely not expecting the old Nord to suddenly, without warning, hug him tightly. That’s when Ja’kir truly breaks down, and soon finds himself sobbing grossly into the old man’s arms. “Deep breaths, my boy. Deep breaths. In, and out. Let it all out.” Ja’kir nods, and, hiccupping, tries to follow Kodlak’s advice. In, and out. In, and out.

“Thank you,” Ja’kir whispers once he’s mostly composed. Kodlak rubs his back reassuringly. “Thank you so much. Ja’kir needed that.” As Ja’kir steps back, he sees Kodlak smile ever so slightly.

“Come find me again if ever you to, understand?” Kodlak says, then sits, and motions to the chair across from him. Ja’kir quickly sits down in it. “Now… what of Aela?”

“She’s alive,” Ja’kir says quickly, and Kodlak frowns.

“I meant… how is she taking the loss of Skjor?” Kodlak clarifies. Ja’kir’s face grows hot.

“She told this to come directly back here and tell you,” Ja’kir says. “So… Ja’kir doesn’t know.” Kodlak nods solemnly, and offers Ja’kir a reassuring smile.

“From the sound of things, she’ll be alright, and so will you,” Kodlak says, “although we may not be seeing much of Aela for several days. Regardless… thank you for telling me of Skjor. Go, and grieve in whatever way you know.” Ja’kir nods, stands, and soon finds himself outside, up at the currently-deserted Skyforge, staring up at the night sky, and wondering.

The next morning, word finally comes from Delphine.

Chapter 16: Diplomatic Immunity

Summary:

Ja'kir prepares for one of the best quests in the game and I will fight anyone on this his infiltration of the Thalmor Embassy, wondering all the while if sending a Khajiit in is really the best idea. After all, Delphine can't be that instantly recognizable by them, right?

“Hang on, Ja’kir needs to make sure this one is hearing you right,” Ja’kir says slowly, not daring to believe his ears. “You want this one to go into the Thalmor Embassy, and pretend to be a guest? You do realize Ja’kir is a Khajiit, correct?” Delphine nods.

“I do, and that’s exactly what I want you to do,” Delphine says. “I know the Thalmor well enough to know that if you just act like you belong there, you’ll be fine. You’ll be far too obvious for them to actually suspect you as a spy.” Ja’kir frowns, and furrows his brow.

“Ja’kir doesn’t follow your logic,” he says quietly, “but how is this one even getting in?” Delphine smiles.

“I’ve got you a legitimate invitation, with your name on it,” Delphine says. “It’ll be your job to stick to your cover story, which is that you’re a traveling merchant from Elsweyr. Make sure you suck up to the Thalmor as much as possible, if you don’t they’ll figure out something’s wrong.” That last bit makes sense, but Ja’kir knows he’s terrible at lying, or bluffing of any kind, and this more likely than not isn’t going to end well.

“Ja’kir’s never been to Elsweyr,” Ja’kir says finally. “Ja’kir was born in Cyrodiil, and also: this one is terrible at lying. You’d be better off going yourself.” Delphine shakes her head.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Delphine says. “For one thing, they know me far too well for me to get in any way other than a prisoner. As I said, you’ll be so obvious that they won’t think you’re a spy. It’ll be perfect.” Ja’kir sincerely doubts that, but then again, he doesn’t know much about espionage. He figures he’ll take Delphine’s word for it, at least for now.

“So, this one’ll have an actual invitation,” Ja’kir repeats, still not quite believing this, and receives a mildly exasperated nod in return. “Once Ja’kir is inside… what then?”

“You’ll need to cause a distraction,” Delphine says. “I have a contact within the Embassy who you’ll need to meet with before you go so he can smuggle your gear in. You can trust him. Wood elf, plenty of reason to hate the Thalmor. Once you’ve slipped out and gotten your gear back… that’s when the real fun begins.”

“Somehow, Ja’kir doubts that,” Ja’kir murmurs under his breath, but Delphine either doesn’t hear him or ignores him. Probably the second option.

“You’ll need to find whatever information they have on the dragons,” Delphine continues, “but if you’re short on time, just grab whatever looks useful and flee. Any questions?”

“Just one,” Ja’kir says quietly. “Are you sure this one is the best option for doing this? Ja’kir can’t lie, this one has tried.”

“You won’t have to lie, if you think of it a certain way,” Delphine says unhelpfully. “And as it happens, there is actually a rather well-off merchant in Elsweyr named Ja’kir, so just pretend you’re him for the night.” Ja’kir stares at her, unimpressed.

“That’s still lying,” he says, and she sighs.

“Okay, fine, that merchant is actually named Ja’kar, but one letter isn’t that much of a difference,” Delphine amends. “Look… I get that you’re not the best for this, but you’re all we’ve got. If you can’t lie, then don’t talk to anyone you don’t have to. Make your distraction, and get out. Simple.” It wasn’t simple in the least, but Ja’kir still nods. As Delphine gives him more detailed instructions on where to find this ‘Malborn’, he wonders, and not for the first time, just what he’s gotten himself into here.

---

“Give me whatever you want in the Embassy, and I’ll make sure to smuggle it in for you,” Malborn says. “That includes your armor.” Ja’kir’s eyes go wide as he realizes he hasn’t actually taken his armor off in weeks, except to sleep. He’s not even sure if he remembered to bring his regular clothes, although he probably should have expected this… somehow.

“Ja’kir needs to go change,” Ja’kir says quickly, gets up, and walks off in the direction of the innkeeper. He’s fairly certain he heard Malborn mutter something along the lines of ‘I sure hope she knows what she’s doing’, but he ignores it in favor of going up to the innkeeper.

“What do you want, Khajiit?” She asks, and Ja’kir tries not to look intimidated. It must have succeeded, because now she looks more than a little nervous. “And wait… how did you get in the city? I thought-”

“This one is a Companion of Jorrvaskr,” Ja’kir says, with more than a hint of pride in his voice. While the innkeeper still looks skeptical, she doesn’t look quite as much like she’s expecting Ja’kir to rob her out of house and home. “And this one would like to rent a room for the night.” She eyes him suspiciously.

“Ten septims,” she says. “I’ll show you to it, and so help me, if I find anything missing, your bounty will shoot up like a sprouting snowberry.” Ja’kir nods, and follows her upstairs. He doesn’t so much as touch anything in the room, but instead closes the door and proceeds to strip. It’s only once he’s got his armor all ready to give to Malborn that he realizes something rather important: he doesn’t have regular clothes anymore, at least not with him.

The armor goes back on, and Ja’kir heads out rather quickly, ignoring Malborn’s annoyed glare. He heads straight for the clothes store across the street, and while the shopkeepers are frigid at best, he gets some regular clothes and shoes semi-quickly, returns to the room, takes his armor off again, puts said regular clothes on, and only then returns to Malborn.

“What in Oblivion took you so long?” Malborn asks irritably as Ja’kir passes him his armor, daggers, several health potions, and a few lockpicks just in case. “And why did you need to go outside?” Ja’kir at first attempts to think of an excuse, but quickly gives up.

“Ja’kir forgot his clothes,” Ja’kir says brightly, and is treated to the wood elf turning an even brighter shade of red. That alone almost makes this whole fiasco worth it. Almost. “Anything else?” Malborn shakes his head.

“Definitely not, and remember, the party is tonight,” Malborn says as he gets up with Ja’kir’s stuff. He feels… exposed without his armor, he’s been wearing it for so long at this point, but what’s done is done. As Malborn walks away, Ja’kir could have sworn he heard him mutter, “I really hope she knows what she’s doing…”

He’s not the only one. Ja’kir feels vulnerable without his armor or weapons, and as he slips out of the city to where he and Delphine had agreed to meet, he tries unsuccessfully to convince himself that this isn’t a terrible idea. By the time he’s made it to the farm just outside Solitude and found Delphine, it’s all he can do not to back out of it immediately.

“Ja’kir thinks this… might be a terrible idea,” Ja’kir admits as he comes up to where she’s sitting on a rock, hood up, clearly trying to look inconspicuous. “Ja’kir also wishes he had his daggers.” Delphine nods at that last bit.

“Yeah, no kidding,” she says. “Once you’ve been fighting for long enough, putting your gear away… isn’t exactly easy. You should have seen me during my first few weeks as an innkeeper. Is everything ready?” Ja’kir frowns.

“Ja’kir thinks so,” Ja’kir says quietly, “except… Ja’kir thinks these clothes might not work for this. Wouldn’t a merchant wear fancier clothes?” Even as he says the words, he internally winces, dreading what he might have to do.

“You’re right,” Delphine agrees, and pulls something out of her pack. She passes it to Ja’kir, and he realizes after a moment that they are, in fact, fancier clothes. (Internally, he’s kind of glad that one of them thought ahead, although he is not looking forward to wearing whatever these are supposed to be.) “Go change into these. If you head down under that ridge, you should be able to change without anything seeing you, unless you mind mudcrabs. I’ll get your ride.”

---

As the wagon pulls up to what has to be the Thalmor Embassy, Ja’kir runs over Delphine’s last piece of advice once again in his head, for what has to be the ninth or tenth time at least. Get in, grab anything that looks related to the dragons, and get out. Ja’kir has a sinking feeling he won’t actually be able to tell if something’s related to the dragons or not just by looking at it.

Ja’kir will just grab anything that looks important, Ja’kir tells himself as the carriage stops. He does his best to look like a Khajiit merchant from Elsweyr (never mind that he has no idea what a Khajiit merchant from Elsweyr is supposed to look like or act like) instead of a Khajiit warrior from Jorrvaskr, and definitely not like a spy. He climbs out of the wagon, and it leaves quickly. Almost too quickly. Probably the driver doesn’t want to be here any more than he does.

Ja’kir can’t really blame him. The Thalmor are terrifying. Regardless… he’s got a job to do, and he’s going to do it. He’s going to do it well, and he’s not going to die or get captured in the process.

Get in, grab anything that looks related to the dragons, and get out.

As Ja’kir walks up to the Embassy, trying desperately not to look intimidated, it occurs to him that infiltrating this place is most certainly an example of something easier said than done.

“Ah, another latecomer to Elenwen’s little soirée,” someone says, and Ja’kir nearly jumps out of his fur. He glances over, hoping the movement looks casual when he knows full well it doesn’t look casual in the least, and meets the gaze of a rather drunk-looking Redguard. (How is he drunk already when he isn’t even in the party?) “Name’s Razelan. Now, I didn’t mean to come late, in fact I much prefer to to come early, very early, as early as the day before! Don’t want to miss out on all the drinking!”

Razelan reminds Ja’kir a little of Torvar, but that might be because they’re both painfully obvious drunkards. Ja’kir remembers a mission he’d gone on a while back with Torvar and Skjor, and while the mission itself was rather unremarkable, Torvar going on and on afterwards about all the different types of mead he’d drank, complete with descriptions of what he’d done while drunk as told to him by witnesses afterwards, was something Ja’kir was never going to forget. He distinctly remembers Skjor threatening to knock Torvar out and drag him back to Jorrvaskr if he didn’t shut up, but he never did…

Divines does he miss Skjor, and Ja’kir didn’t even know him all that well.

“A-ny-way,” Razelan enunciates as he heads up to the gate (Ja’kir swears he saw one of the guards roll her eyes), “let us go! Here’s my invitation, I don’t have a poisoned dagger strapped to my thigh and all that, yada yada yada.” He hands his invitation to the other guard, who looks over it so quickly that Ja’kir doubts the elf read it before handing it back.

“We are just following protocol, sir,” the first Thalmor guard says as Razelan tips his (imaginary) hat to her. “Have a good time.” He heads in, and while Ja’kir really doesn’t want to do this, he really doesn’t have a choice. It’s now or never. So, Ja’kir forces his feet to move, forces his hand into his pocket (the pockets on this outfit are terrible), forces his fingers to stop shaking as he grabs the invitation, and shoves it at the guard.

“Ja’kir is party to here,” Ja’kir hears himself say, and either the guards don’t notice his slip-up or don’t care. Considering that this is the Thalmor, it’s far more likely that they did notice and simply don’t care. The guard looks over his invitation briefly, then passes it back to him, and Ja’kir lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Enjoy the party, sir,” the guard says with more than a little boredom in her voice. Ja’kir nods, and hurries in.

They don’t even care that this one is a Khajiit? Ja’kir wonders, but he knows better than to press the matter. As he enters the main building, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, Delphine might have been onto something. Of course, that’s only until someone clears her throat right next to him, and Ja’kir nearly jumps out of his skin for the second time in a matter of minutes.

“Welcome,” the important-looking Altmer woman says, and while Ja’kir’s not as good at reading people as some others he knows, she practically radiates power. Whoever she is, she’s high up in the Thalmor, and the fact that he ran into someone high up in the Thalmor first can’t be good. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim. And you are…?”

Shit, Ja’kir thinks. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Chapter 17: Thalmor Embassy

Summary:

Ja'kir finishes off the Diplomatic Immunity quest, and from the sound of things is about to get sent off to Riften. That'll be fun, seeing as he's a Khajiit in a city of thieves, and as everyone knows, Khajiit are stereotyped as thieves...

Ja’kir simply stares at Elenwen like a thief caught red-handed for a painfully long time before realizing he really ought to say something, at least. Unfortunately, all the great advice Delphine had given him not that long before had completely slipped his mind as soon as he’d actually had to talk to someone, leaving Ja’kir with only his wits and his terrible bluffing skills. He wishes Aela was here, because she at least could and would lie convincingly when put on the spot.

“Ja’kir’s-” Ja’kir begins, then shakes his head. “Khajiit’s name is Ja’kir. It’s... pleased to meet you.” Internally, he winces, because it’s so obvious that he’s not supposed to be here that it’s sad. Once again, he wishes Aela was here, but Aela’s back in Jorrvaskr, probably. She wasn’t around when he left.

Ja’kir really wishes he’d gotten a chance to say goodbye, but it was fine. As far as anyone in the Companions knew, he was on official Dragonborn business… and he was! Just not in High Hrothgar or anywhere in the general vicinity.

“Ah, yes… I remember your name from the guest list,” Elenwen says, and Ja’kir internally curses Delphine for thinking this was a good idea when it clearly wasn’t and isn’t. “Please, tell me more about yourself. What brings you to this… to Skyrim?”Ja’kir can feel himself beginning to sweat under the clothes that very clearly aren’t made for Khajiit use. Elenwen can probably tell. Elenwen probably knows full well that he’s not supposed to be here, he is doomed, he is so utterly doomed-

“Madame Ambassador, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Malborn begins at her side with a meaningful look in Ja’kir’s direction, and as soon as Elenwen turns, barely hidden fury in her eyes, Ja’kir wastes no time in slipping past her and into the party. He doesn’t recognize anyone, which is probably a good thing, because if he recognized anyone they would probably recognize him, and that would be bad.

“Good to see you made it in, old chap,” someone says from a nearby bench, and Ja’kir glances down to see the Redguard from earlier. Razelan, he remembers. Silently, Ja’kir takes a seat next to him. “Not one for parties, eh?” Ja’kir shakes his head.

“This one is… not feeling so good,” Ja’kir says. Razelan nods sympathetically, although Ja’kir highly doubts he knows what’s actually making him feel like shit. He’s just a drunkard, after all… a drunkard who’s apparently high-ranking enough to be here at a party where (if Delphine is to be believed) all the rich and influential people come to suck up to the Thalmor, so he must be of some importance.

“Sometimes that just happens,” Razelan says, patting him on the shoulder. To Ja’kir’s credit, he manages to not flinch away. “Sometimes that just happens. You think a drink might help?” Ja’kir follows Razelan’s gaze to the bar, where Malborn has resumed his post. Elenwen’s resumed talking with another guest, one Ja’kir doesn’t recognize (but then again, he doesn’t recognize anyone) on the other side of the room.

“Probably not,” Ja’kir says, staring off into space. Literally the last thing he wants to do is talk to this man, but Elenwen might be less likely to seek him out if he looks like he’s talking to someone, and while he doesn’t like his chances at all, he’s already in here, and he has to do his damndest to get out alive and with what he needs.

“Well, can you get one anyway?” Razelan asks. “The bartender’s stopped giving me drinks.” Despite himself, Ja’kir glances over at him and raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve been here for five minutes and the bartender’s already stopped giving you drinks?”

Razelan nods sheepishly. “Under orders from Elenwen to try and keep me sober this time around. Not that I am to begin with, of course! But it would be nice to have at least one drink tonight.” He looks meaningfully between Ja’kir and the bar, and Ja’kir realizes that he’s trying to drop a hint.

“Alright,” Ja’kir says finally, only getting up after ensuring that Elenwen was otherwise involved. “Ja’kir will get you a drink.” While supporting Razelan’s drinking habits probably isn’t the greatest idea, it gives him an excuse to talk to Malborn, and possibly a distraction… maybe. If he’s lucky.

“What can I get for you?” Malborn asks as Ja’kir walks up, then lowers his voice to a barely-audible whisper. “As soon as you distract the guards, I can open the door and we can get you on your way. Let’s hope we both live through tonight.” Ja’kir nods.

“Ja’kir thinks he has a distraction,” Ja’kir whispers. “But this one needs… whatever Razelan usually drinks.” Malborn raises an eyebrow.

“That... might not be the best idea, but we can’t exactly be picky. I’ll be waiting by the door,” Malborn says as he rummages around behind the counter and passing Ja’kir a bottle of something. He goes back to his normal tone of speaking then. “Here you go, sir. The finest Colovian brandy. Is there anything else I can get for you?” Ja’kir takes the bottle, and shakes his head.

“Thank you, though,” Ja’kir says. Malborn nods curtly, and with that, Ja’kir returns to the bench, passing off the ‘Colovian brandy’ to Razelan immediately, who looks delighted. “Here’s your drink.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, my friend!” Razelan says cheerfully after he’s drained half the bottle in a matter of seconds. Oh Divines this wasn’t a good idea. “Ah, now that is the good stuff. How did you know my favorite?”

“Ja’kir guessed,” Ja’kir says, then takes a deep breath. “And… once you’re done with that, Ja’kir could really use a favor…”

While Razelan proceeds to make a fool of himself, Ja’kir slips away from the crowd and back to the bar, where Malborn is waiting for him. The two silently go through the door and through a passageway without incident. It’s only when they pass through the kitchen that someone - namely, a Khajiit woman wearing an apron and apparently cooking for the party - notices something’s up.

“Who comes, Malborn?” She asks, squinting in their general direction. “You know I don’t like strange smells in my kitchen.” It’s then that Ja’kir realizes that Malborn is standing between the Khajiit woman and him, and for good reason - this would be hard to explain at best.

“A guest, feeling ill,” Malborn says, and motions behind his back for Ja’kir to head for another doorway. “Leave the poor wretch be.” Naturally, Ja’kir doesn’t get two steps before the cook notices him, or rather, what he is.

“A guest? In the kitchens? You know this is against the rules,” she says, and Ja’kir is shocked that she doesn’t mention anything about him being a Khajiit, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that, he needs to move, and he does.

“Rules, is it, Tsavani?” Malborn asks. “I didn't realize that eating Moon Sugar was permitted. Perhaps I should ask the Ambassador…” Tsavani’s ears lie flat against her head, but despite this she still doesn’t seem to notice the most obvious thing about Ja’kir.

“Tss! Get out of here, I saw nothing,” Tsavani says, and Ja’kir wastes no time in doing so, Malborn close behind. They soon come to a locked door, which Malborn unlocks, and a storage room.

“She’s mostly blind at this point,” Malborn explains, then motions to a bag hidden behind a pair of barrels. Not just any bag, either: the bag Malborn was carrying back in the Winking Skeever, the bag that most of Ja’kir’s gear went into, the bag that’s still bulging with (he hopes) his armor. “Your things are in there. Change if you have to, but do it quickly. I need to lock the door behind you. Let’s hope we both live through tonight.” Ja’kir nods, and finding his armor quickly, he straps it on over his party clothes.

“Agreed,” Ja’kir says. “Be careful.” Malborn nods.

“As I said… let’s hope we both live through tonight. If things go badly… just make sure you tell Delphine I told her so.”

As it happens, things don’t actually go too badly, minus the fact that Ja’kir is definitely overheating between his fur, the party clothes, and his armor. Being outside for a time, even if it’s within the Embassy’s courtyard, is a welcome change, but it doesn’t last long.

In the end, Ja’kir still completely regrets agreeing to do this.

---

 

“Malborn says ‘I told you so’,” Ja’kir says as he sets down an armful of various Thalmor papers on Delphine’s desk. “And for that matter, so does this one.” Delphine sighs.

“Did you at least get the information we needed?” Delphine asks. Ja’kir shrugs.

“Ja’kir thinks so,” Ja’kir says, “but this one was short on time and didn’t read them.” Not exactly a lie, and when Delphine picks one of the dossiers up and reads the cover, he’s reasonably certain the small gasp from her isn’t because of him.

“Well, this wasn’t what I was looking for, but it’s definitely what we need,” Delphine says grimly, earning a confused look from Ja'kir. “How familiar are you with Riften?”

"...Ja'kir has never been there in his life."

Chapter 18: Riften (Better Known As Corruption Incarnate)

Summary:

Ja'kir's off to Riften... and I had a very, very difficult time keeping Brynjolf from playing a bigger role in the story. As it happens, it's really difficult to keep characters you really like out of stories, even when they have no reason to be there. Whoops. Also, Esbern.

Ja’kir is not looking forward to Riften, for a whole slew of reasons. He’s not even sure if they’ll let hm, a Khajiit, into the city, and even if they do… he doesn’t even know where to begin looking for this Esbern man. He only knows what Delphine told him, after all, and while she did let him keep the dossier for reference, it’s kind of useless, seeing as Ja’kir can’t exactly read.

Of course, Delphine doesn’t know that. Nobody knows that, and unless he has no other choice, Ja’kir fully intends to keep it that way. Nobody needs to know how useless he is. Nobody can know how useless he is, or everything Ja’kir’s worked for since coming to Skyrim will all come crashing down.

“Hey, kid,” someone says behind him. Ja’kir stops in his tracks and whirls around, the beginnings of a FUS RO DAH in his throat, except it’s then he realizes it’s Aela. She looks… a lot better than she did the last time Ja’kir really talked to her, which is probably a good thing. Strike that, definitely a good thing, seeing as the last time they spoke was just after Skjor’s... death.

“You scared this one,” Ja’kir says quickly, managing a half-hearted glare in Aela’s direction. She doesn’t look particularly bothered, because of course she doesn’t. Very few things seem to faze her, in all honesty. “What are you doing here?” Aela shrugs.

“It’s a long story,” she says, “but the short version is, I told Kodlak I was heading out to help you with your Dragonborn business.” Ja’kir frowns.

“But… you couldn’t have known Ja’kir was heading to the Rift,” Ja’kir says slowly, and earns a nod.

“You’ve got that right. I’ve been making plans to take the fight to the Silver Hand, and as it happens, they’ve got a hideout right outside Riften,” Aela says. “Place called Faldar’s Tooth. Used to be full of bandits, now it’s full of self-righteous bandits.You want to come? It’ll be a good opportunity to get used to your wolf.”

Part of Ja’kir practically leaps at the opportunity, and Ja’kir suspects it’s that part that comprises the werewolf side of him. The dragon within him sounds excited, too, but Ja’kir’s reasonably certain by now that Sahloknir would let him die simply out of spite. He kind of misses Mirmulnir, but… regardless, he’s got a job to do. He made a promise. And he’s going to keep that promise and do that job.

“Ja’kir can’t join you,” Ja’kir says sadly. “Ja’kir has to find someone in Riften before the Thalmor do.” Aela raises an eyebrow.

“Thalmor, huh?” She asks. “Well. I might have to join you for that. I guess the Silver Hand won’t be going anywhere for a while, so… go ahead and fill me in.” Ja’kir nods, and passes the dossier on ‘Esbern’ over to her. She looks over it as they walk, looking more grim by the second, then passes it back to Ja’kir.

“Well, at least they don’t want to kill him,” Aela mutters. Ja’kir tries not to look surprised, because that’s news to him. He’s… reasonably sure he succeeded. “Makes our - well, your - job a lot easier.” Ja’kir nods.

“Right,” Ja’kir says. “So… what’s the plan?” Aela looks at him incredulously, and cracks a grin.

“Hey, you’re the Dragonborn, remember?” Aela says. (As if he could ever forget.) “I’m just along for the ride. And to, you know, keep you from getting yourself killed.”

“And to get this one to help you screw over the Silver Hand,” Ja’kir adds with a very knowing look in Aela’s general direction. She mumbles a curse under her breath.

“And to get you to help me screw over the Silver Hand,” she agrees reluctantly. “So. If we’re looking for a man hiding in Riften… twenty septims says he’s somewhere in the Ratway.”

“Ja’kir is not taking that bet.”

---

“Look, lad,” the redheaded Nord who (according to Delphine) is named Brynjolf and who (also according to Delphine) isn’t exactly the most moral but is at least well-connected, “I don’t care if the fate of the damn world depends on you finding this man. You want information, you help me and I’ll help you.” Ja’kir fervently wishes he could just Shout this Brynjolf bastard into the wall and be done with it, but unfortunately that would cause more problems than it fixed. Even if the bastard is an obvious thief.

“Kid, you don’t actually have to ask him anything,” Aela counters, “the guy’s obviously down in the Ratway somewhere. It’s not like there’s a lot of places to hide in this city.” The thief made a coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter.

“Actually, lass, you’d be surprised,” he says. “While you’re right, your man is down in the Ratway, clearly you’ve never been down there or you’d know how easy it is to get lost down there. Take a wrong turn and you’ll never see the light of day again.” While Ja’kir suspects he’s exaggerating, a lot, Brynjolf does has a point. Ja’kir can’t say he’s looking forward to spending any more time underground than he has to, anyway.

“So it’s easy to get lost down there,” Ja’kir says, staring Brynjolf down in a way he hopes makes the Nord uncomfortable. (Actually, it’s probably making Ja’kir far more uncomfortable than it is Brynjolf, but it’s the thought that counts.) “How does telling us that benefit you?” Brynjolf looks mildly surprised for a moment, before grinning a grin that really unsettles Ja’kir.

“We could use more thieves like you in the Guild, you know,” Brynjolf says, and while he’s made no secret of the fact that he’s a thief, this is the first Ja’kir’s hearing of his connections to the Thieves Guild. He probably shouldn’t be surprised, considering.

“Ja’kir is not a thief,” Ja’kir says flatly, “and Ja’kir is not joining your Guild.” Brynjolf shrugs.

“Fair enough, lad, there’s something to be said for sticking to your principles,” Brynjolf says in a tone that has Ja’kir ready to tell him just where he can stick his principles. “However… let’s just say I can make you a little deal.”

Ja’kir eyes the man skeptically, but opts to let him continue for now.

“You get me some help with this job here,” Brynjolf offers, “and I’ll get you through the Ratway. If you really don’t want to get your hands dirty, you could always be the distraction. Doubt you’d do as good a job as me, though.” He winks, and Ja’kir has to restrain himself from pulling his daggers on the man, because that would make him no better than Brynjolf.

“You’re probably right,” Ja’kir mutters to himself, and looks to Aela. She looks back with an impassive look that clearly means something along the lines of ‘your problem, not mine’ and so Ja’kir tries to think of what Delphine would do.

Delphine would do whatever it took to get this Esbern man safely out of harm’s way, and Ja’kir… well, he supposes that if he was in her position and the individual he was looking for happened to be, say, Aless… he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Ja’kir hopes the Divines will forgive him for this. It’s for a good cause.

“Ja’kir will do it,” Ja’kir says softly, resigning himself to what he has to do. He lowers his gaze to the ground, and doesn’t look at Aela. “Just tell this one what to do.”

The ‘job’ goes off without a hitch, and Ja’kir feels like absolute shit before, during, and after, but it’s done. It’s done, and there’s no going back. Despite that, he can’t stop himself from watching the innocent Dunmer he’d framed be taken away by the guards, and he barely stops himself from crying, because who’d made that happen? Ja’kir. The Khajiit who was supposed to be a hero, supposed to be the Dragonborn.

Ja’kir would have been fine with just being a good person, but it seemed he couldn’t even do that. But… he can’t break down crying. Not now. Not in front of Aela (and that damn thief too, he supposes).

“Let’s just go,” Ja’kir says quietly, turning to Brynjolf. “Ja’kir did your dirty work.” Brynjolf nods.

“You sure did, lad, and you did it quite masterfully for someone who isn’t a thief,” Brynjolf says. “Are you sure you don’t want to give the Guild a ch-”

“Positive,” Ja’kir says firmly. “Let’s just go.” He doesn’t look at Aela, mainly because he knows he won’t be able to handle the disappointment in her eyes. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to face anyone after this.

---

Brynjolf slips away once they’ve made it to a inconspicuous-looking door, although on closer inspection, the thing has at least twelve different deadbolts and looks like it would take a giant to break it down. So, in other words, it’s definitely where someone paranoid is living, and Ja’kir remembers all too well what Delphine mentioned off-handedly as he headed out the door.

If you think I’m paranoid… well, you may have a little trouble getting him to trust you, Ja’kir remembers her saying. If nothing else… ask him about the 30th of Frostfall. He’ll know what it means.

Ja’kir takes a shaky breath, and reaches to knock on the door.

“Hold on,” Aela says suddenly. It’s still hard for him to meet her gaze, but he does, and finds that it’s full of concern. “Kid. You’re shaking. It’s not that cold in here, you know.” Maybe it isn’t, but Ja’kir still feels horrible about what he’s done. He doesn’t get how Aela can just… brush past it, like it didn’t even happen.

“Oh,” Ja’kir says, glancing down at his hands. Aela’s right, they are shaking. He hadn’t noticed. Ja’kir shivers, despite the fact that it’s not particularly cold in the Ratway - nowhere near as cold as it is outside, that’s for sure. He blinks hard.

“Are you feeling alright?” Aela asks. “You should be fairly immune to disease, so… gods, did stealing that ring affect you that much?” That’s all it takes for Ja’kir’s resolve to crumble. He drops to his knees, curls in on himself, and chokes back a sob.

“Ja’kir did exactly what he never wanted to do again,” Ja’kir chokes out. “Ja’kir wanted to believe he wasn’t like other Khajiit, wasn’t a thief. This one was wrong.” Aela’s gaze turns sympathetic.

“Well, for one thing, if I’d known you’d react like this, I would have done it,” Aela says quietly. “You did what you had to do. For what it’s worth, the merchant isn’t going to be in jail for very long, a few days at most.” Ja’kir shakes his head.

“But he’ll be in jail, he is in jail, and he’s there because of this one,” Ja’kir says miserably. Aela nods.

“Kid… Ja’kir, listen to me. Sometimes, you have to do things you don’t want to do, but it all works out in the end. If it makes you feel any better, then stop by his shop once he’s released. Pick up some things, make up for what you did.”

“That doesn’t help,” Ja’kir says. Aela groans.

“Maybe not, but you are the Dragonborn, and I doubt the Thalmor are going to wait for you to get it together,” Aela says. Her gaze softens some, and she offers Ja’kir a hand. “In the meantime, I’ve got your back.” After a moment, Ja’kir takes it, and stands up again.

“Thank you,” Ja’kir says sincerely. Aela nods. “But… it doesn’t bother you what this one did…?” Aela shrugs.

“You did what you had to,” Aela says, “so no, not really. Now, let’s see just how paranoid this old man of yours is.” She nods to the door, and Ja’kir takes a deep, significantly-less-shaky breath.

“Here goes nothing,” he murmurs, and knocks.

“Go away!” Someone says from within. “I’m very dangerous!” Aela hides a smirk.

“Esbern?” Ja’kir asks hesitantly. “Open the door. This one is a friend.” He glances to Aela, who shrugs.

“What?! No, that’s not me,” Esbern says unconvincingly. “I’m not Esbern. I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ja’kir winces, and tries again.

“It’s okay,” Ja’kir tries, “Delphine sent me. She said to-”

“Delphine? How do you...” Esbern interrupts, with more than a little shock in his voice. However, when he speaks again, it’s not with shock in his voice, but suspicion. “So you’ve finally found her, and she led you to me. And here I am, caught like a rat in a trap.” Ja’kir groans.

“She didn’t even know where you were, actually!” Ja’kir says. “This one had to go into the Thalmor Embassy to find that out-”

“You sneaked into the Thalmor Embassy?” Aela asks, more than a little incredulous. “And they didn’t out you instantly?” Ja’kir shrugs.

“Ja’kir told Delphine it was a bad idea,” Ja’kir mutters, then returns his attention to the door. “Look, Esbern? The Thalmor have found you. You need to get out of here.” Esbern laughs humorlessly.

“Oh, how reassuring! Most likely you’re with the Thalmor,” Esbern says, “and this is just a trick to get me to open the door! Leave me alone!” Ja’kir winces, and tries to think of something. What Delphine told him to say comes to mind.

“Delphine needs your help to stop the dragons,” Ja’kir says, “and she said to… something about the 30th of Frostfall.” Silence from Esbern, and for a moment, Ja’kir thinks he’s gotten it wrong. It might not have been the 30th of Frostfall, it might have been the 30th of Last Seed, or Evening Star, or-

“So Delphine keeps up the fight, after all these years,” Esbern murmurs so quietly, Ja’kir almost can’t hear him through the door. “You’d better come in and tell me how you found me and what you want. This’ll just take a moment…”

As Esbern attempts to unlock the door, Ja’kir looks to Aela.

“And I thought Delphine was paranoid,” Aela remarks dryly. “Do you think this makes us honorary Blades?” Ja’kir shrugs.

“Maybe,” Ja’kir says. “From what Ja'kir's heard about them… this one hopes so.”

Chapter 19: The Dragonborn Werewolf

Summary:

A lot of characters that are Dragonborn and in the Companions, I've found, can't balance having the soul of a dragon and the spirit of a werewolf. As it happens, Ja'kir having the spirit of a werewolf helps him deal with having the soul of a dragon. Good for him! (Also, I love Esbern. I firmly believe that the only reason he insisted we kill Paarthurnax was because he was basically repeating Delphine's orders verbatim, and I mean, he's just such a quirky old man and he's definitely getting some action in here.)

Once Esbern has the door open, he wastes no time in ushering Aela and Ja’kir in, and Aela and Ja’kir waste no time in getting in there. After all, there are Thalmor agents around, and they all know what the Thalmor are like. In Ja’kir’s case, and Esbern’s case especially, the knowledge is first-hand.

“It’s good to know that Delphine is still alive, I… was beginning to fear the worst,” Esbern says after he’s reset the various locks and bolts, relief plainly etched across his features. However, relief quickly turns to despair, and Ja’kir isn’t quite sure why. “I thought… she’d have realized it’s hopeless by now. I tried to tell her, years ago…”

“Tell her what?” Ja’kir asks, then, seeing a pained look in his eyes, he quickly changes the subject. “You know what, never mind. This one- uh…”

“There’s Thalmor agents looking for you. They know where you are, Ja’kir here stole their dossier on you,” Aela says, and while Ja’kir says nothing, he’s immensely grateful for the save. “We have to get out of here before they swarm the place.” Esbern looks at her curiously for a time, then laughs humorlessly.

“Yes, yes, so you said,” Esbern says, and while he still looks quite a man who’s given up all hope, there’s a mischievous gleam to his eyes as he regards Ja’kir with a fair bit of respect. “You infiltrated the Thalmor, did you? That can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” Ja’kir says flatly. “Literally anyone could have done a better job than this one.” Esbern shrugs.

“Well, you got in and you got out alive, which is more than some former Blades can say,” Esbern says, and frowns. “As nice as it is to talk with someone who doesn’t live down here, the two of you should get going. Live your lives, before doom overtakes us all.” Aela raises an eyebrow.

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, aren’t you,” she remarks dryly. Esbern opens his mouth to protest, but Aela continues before he can say a word. “Look, I’m not even sure what’s going on here, I just came along for the ride and the opportunity to gut a few Thalmor. But we’re Companions, both of us. And we don’t fail missions, so you’re coming with us.”

“Companions?” Esbern asks, intrigued. “That’s a story I’d like to hear… but I’m afraid there’s no point. The end is upon us. I may as well die here, I’m tired of running.” Ja’kir frowns.

“What do you mean by ‘the end is upon us’?” Ja’kir asks quietly. Probably the right question to ask, but even so, Esbern hesitates, and eventually sighs.

“Alduin has returned,” Esbern says quietly, and Aela’s eyes go wide. Ja’kir doesn’t recognize the name, but he figures he can ask about it later… maybe. Hopefully. “Nothing can escape his hunger, not here and not in the afterlife. Alduin will devour all things and the world will end, plain and simple. I tried to warn the others… they didn’t listen. Fools. It’s all come true… all I could do is watch our doom approach.”

On second thought, Ja’kir’s really confused, although he’s pretty sure Alduin is a dragon - he’s not actually sure why he thinks that - and if Esbern’s right, this really, really isn’t good. But maybe, if Alduin is a dragon, maybe there’s something he can do about this. Then again, Esbern seems pretty smart, and he probably knows what he’s talking about...

“So… who’s Alduin?” Ja’kir asks, and earns an incredulous look from Esbern for all of two seconds before he realizes Ja’kir is not, in fact, a Nord, he’s a Khajiit, and the incredulity fades.

“Apologies, I’m not used to people not being familiar with it… well, I’m not used to people these days, actually- but you two should really go,” Esbern says. “The short version of it is that Alduin is the World-Eater, the dragon prophesied to return at the end of time - which he has - and eat the world - which he likely will soon.”

“But he can be defeated,” Aela says. Esbern nods slowly. “By the Dragonborn.”

“Only a Dragonborn can stop him,” Esbern agrees. “But the last known Dragonborn was Martin Septim, and his line ended with him. It seems the gods have grown tired of us. They’ve left us to our fate, as the plaything of Alduin the World-Eater. It’s… quite hopeless, I’m afraid.” Ja’kir glances at Aela, glances back at Esbern, and grins.

“It’s not hopeless, Esbern,” Ja’kir says cheerfully. “Ja’kir is Dragonborn. This one can Shout to demonstrate if you’d like, although that would probably be a bad idea considering the Thalmor around.”

In all honesty, Esbern’s full reaction warms Ja’kir’s heart and makes him at least more sure that he made the right choice. His eyes go wide in surprise, but as he puts it together, his face just lights up and Ja’kir’s glad he could make an old man’s day… week… month… probably more than that, honestly, but he’s going to stop at month.

“What? You’re… can it really be true? Dragonborn?” Esbern asks, shock and awe written across his features. He glances to Aela, who nods solemnly, and Esbern’s suddenly all smiles. It’s a nice change from all the doom and gloom of before. “Then… then there is hope! The gods have not abandoned us! We must... we must... We must go, quickly now. Take me to Delphine, then. We have much to discuss."

Ja’kir nods, grinning back, but the feeling of triumph is unfortunately rather short-lived. It’s interrupted within moments of Esbern grabbing the things he considers necessities by someone banging on the door, and somehow, Ja’kir gets the feeling it’s not Brynjolf.

“Open up in there!” Someone demands, someone with an unmistakable, very heavy Summerset accent, and Ja’kir’s heart nearly stops.

“So they are here…” Esbern murmurs. A strange sort of resolve fills his eyes then, and he lifts his hands in a pose typical to spell-casters. (Of course he knows magic.) “I can’t say I haven’t done my fair share of fantasizing about fighting back, although I must warn you I’m not much of a fighter.”

“We are,” Ja’kir says proudly, then looks to Aela. “This one has an idea-”

“If it involves what I think it involves, don’t,” Aela cuts in, earning a very, very surprised look from Ja’kir. “You’re far too inexperienced, it’s too cramped in here, and these are the Thalmor. Maybe if we run into trouble on the road.” Ja’kir still looks surprised, but less so, and he at least knows what she’s talking about now… unlike Esbern.

“Actually, Ja’kir was thinking that a Shout would knock back anything past the doorway nicely,” Ja’kir says. Aela nods, draws her bow, and they both look to Esbern. “This one is ready when you are.” Esbern nods too, after a few moments.

“Right,” Esbern says, and gets to unlocking the bolts. When he undoes the last one, he quickly gets out of the way, and not a moment too soon, either. Something on the other side, probably a spell of sorts, knocks it down, but Ja’kir’s ready. Ja’kir’s more than ready. Ja’kir was born ready… because he’s the damn Dragonborn.

“FUS RO DAH!” Ja’kir Shouts, and the Thalmor agents in front of the door go flying. He unsheathes his daggers, and the trio charges out into the Ratway. From there, Ja’kir’s daggers make short work of whatever Aela’s arrows don’t, and Esbern pitches in from time to time with a fireball or two.

When they rush through the Ragged Flagon, the place is deserted. Ja’kir’s not particularly surprised, even thieves wouldn’t want anything to do with the Thalmor.

(He remembers the thief from the Embassy, though, Etienne. Ja’kir hasn’t seen him since, but he hopes he’s doing alright. He seemed like a nice kid, even if he was a thief. If all thieves were like Etienne Rarnis, Ja’kir wouldn’t have anywhere near as much of a problem with them.)

Once they’re out of the Ratway, it’s not hard to slip out of the city, and once they’re out of the city, the group is home free for Riverwood. At least, that’s what Ja’kir thinks, except for when they pass by the ruins of Helgen and disaster strikes in the form of a group of bandits.

“You picked a bad time to get lost, friends,” one of them says, and an arrow comes out of nowhere, hitting Aela in… well, Ja’kir doesn’t see where it hits, but he sees her fall, and nearly panics.

“I’m fine,” Aela mumbles, catching herself before she hits the ground. Her gaze meets Ja’kir’s, and while he knows full well that she is most certainly not fine, there’s no arguing with her. Not now. Her hand finds the arrow - fortunately in her shoulder and nowhere vital - and she winces. “Don’t think I’ll be much help in this fight, though. Unless… kid. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Ja’kir thinks so,” Ja’kir says. “Are you sure this one-”

“I mean, you could,” Aela says, shrugging. Then she winces, like it pains her. It probably does. “Probably not a good idea to shift when I’m already wounded, anyway. I’ve got a few spare potions, and you could use the practice, so... you do remember how to shift?” Ja’kir shakes his head.

“No, this one-”

“What are you two talking about?” Esbern asks, more than a hint of panic in his voice, and Ja’kir realizes he’s conjured up some sort of flame thing from the depths of Oblivion. It’s currently hurling fire in the general direction of the bandits, but it’s not doing much other than keeping them at bay. “I told you, I’m not a fighter, we need to run-”

“No, we don’t,” Aela says with a wolfish grin. (At any other time, Ja’kir would see the irony.) “Anyway… you remember how it felt just before you shifted for the first time, right? Try and bring that feeling back. And… try not to lose control, I can handle it if you do, but I doubt our friend here will.”

“What are you talking about?” Esbern repeats.

Ja’kir is somewhat aware of Aela responding, but by then he’s focusing on one thing, and one thing only: his beast blood. He knows he’s changed in more ways than that since becoming a werewolf. He knows he sometimes smells more like a dog than a Khajiit. He knows he never can seem to get a good night’s sleep anymore.

He knows this, and as he looks to Aela, blood roaring in his ears, something clicks within him. This time, he’s far more aware of the change. His fur begins to lengthen, and turn to the deep black of night. His armor slips off. He drops to all fours as his shape changes, and settles on a vaguely wolfish form.

Ja’kir howls, and this time, the second time, he’s a lot more aware of what he’s doing. He can still feel the predatory instincts tugging at the back of his mind, vying for control, but this time, he’s in charge. Ja’kir’s in charge.

“Good job, kid,” Aela says behind him, and he glances back to find her sipping nonchalantly at a health potion. She looks proud, though, and Ja’kir’s glad he could make her proud. “Knew you had it in you.” Esbern, meanwhile, has completely frozen.

“What- you’re- you’re a-”

“We both are, actually,” Aela says in exactly the same tone she would have informed him that they were Companions. Ja’kir nods, but glances over to where Esbern’s flame thing is keeping the bandits busy. They haven’t noticed that he’s a werewolf yet. Probably a good thing. “Well, kid, do you think you can handle these bandits? There’s… four of them, I believe. One archer. No mages. The archer isn’t actually that good, I think he got a lucky shot off.”

Ja’kir lopes up to her and, before he can stop himself, licks her cheek. Naturally, the Khajiit side of him is horrified. The wolf side of him is completely unfazed. He hasn’t heard anything from his dragon side since he became a werewolf, and he probably should be worried about that, but he isn’t.

A certain woody scent fills his nostrils, and Ja’kir realizes with a start that he must be scenting Aela. He takes a cautious step back, only to realize she’s smirking.

“That’s a yes, then,” she says dryly. “My wolf’s a little too affectionate too, if that makes you feel any better. I’ll explain what’s going on to your friend here, you go deal with the bandits. Got it?”

Ja’kir howls a yes, and tears off into the ruined town without looking to see how Esbern is dealing with all of this. It’s probably a good thing that he’s shifted during the first time he truly returns to Helgen. He probably would have broken down into a sobbing mess otherwise.

---

By the time Ja’kir returns to where he left Aela and Esbern, he doesn’t find them, but he does find a trail leading to a makeshift campsite. Aela and Esbern are talking in low voices next to the fire, and she’s at least bandaged up her shoulder. (Sure, the healing potion should have taken care of it, but better safe than sorry.) Ja’kir opens his mouth to greet them, and then realizes when a howl comes out instead of words that he’s still shifted.

(In retrospect, that’s probably a good thing. After all, he isn’t sure what happened to his armor after he shifted, and even if Aela’s already seen him stark naked, it’s not the sort of thing Ja’kir wants to repeat.)

“Bandits are taken care of?” Aela asks, and Ja’kir nods. “Glad to hear it. You doing alright?” He nods again, and it’s then that Esbern apparently decides he can’t keep quiet any longer.

“So how does it work? The… the lycanthropy?” Esbern asks curiously, looking between Aela and Ja’kir. “Is it easy to become a werewolf? Is it easy to change back? What’s it like when you’re a werewolf? You’re fully in control, correct?” Aela sighs.

“While I’ll take this over you deciding we’re monsters and attempting to kill us on the spot,” Aela says, sounding suspiciously like she’s referencing the Silver Hand, “that’s… a lot of questions. More questions than Ja’kir asked before he became one, and he asked a lot.”

Ja’kir can’t talk as a werewolf, so he settles for an unimpressed glare in Aela’s direction.

“Anyway, kid, you might want to get comfortable,” Aela says. “The second time I shifted, I didn’t shift back for a while.”

Ja’kir nods, and lets his werewolf instincts take over, because for once they’re not all about killing and hunting and more killing. He curls up next to Aela, and as she begins answering Esbern’s questions (that are, according to him, purely out of academic curiosity), he eventually lays his head in her lap and closes his eyes.

He hasn’t slept well since he got the beast blood, but this time, he’s out like a light, and for the first time since that day in Cyrodiil, he doesn’t have nightmares.

Chapter 20: Sky Haven Temple

“Now then,” Delphine says briskly once everyone’s downstairs in her secret room, “I assume you know about…” Esbern nods. His eyes shine with excitement, like he’s a little kid who just got a new toy and not an old man who just heard that the world wasn’t doomed to end. There’s a pretty big difference there.

“Oh yes! Dragonborn! Indeed, yes,” Esbern agrees. Before getting to Riverwood, both Ja’kir and Aela swore him to secrecy on the matter of the beast blood, but that doesn’t stop Esbern for being more excited than Ja’kir when sweet rolls are involved… and Ja’kir really likes sweet rolls. They’re kind of one of his guilty pleasures. “This changes everything, of course. There’s no time to lose. We must locate… let me show you. I know I had it here, somewhere…”

“Esbern, what…”

Esbern holds up a hand as he rummages through his pack at a increasingly frenetic pace, before eventually, finally, pulling out a book. He lays it out on the table, and begins flipping through it even faster.

“Give me… just a moment…” Esbern mumbles, before apparently finally finding what he’s looking for. “Aha! Here it is. Come, let me show you. You see, right here.” He passes the book over to Delphine, who looks at it. If her expression’s any indication, she’s just as confused as Ja’kir and Aela, if not more so. “Sky Haven Temple, constructed around one of the main Akaviri military camps in the Reach, during their conquest of Skyrim."

Delphine frowns, and looks to Aela, then Ja’kir. “Do either of you know what he’s talking about?” Ja’kir shakes his head. Aela opens her mouth to speak, but is quickly cut off by Esbern shushing everyone in the room.

“This is where they built Alduin's Wall, to set down in stone all their accumulated dragonlore,” Esbern narrates, and a far-away look comes into his eyes. “A hedge against the forgetfulness of centuries. A wise and foresighted policy, in the event. Despite the far-reaching fame of Alduin's Wall at the time - one of the wonders of the ancient world - its location was lost." Despite how Esbern sounds like he’s on the verge of freaking out about this… wall, nobody else seems to get what he’s talking about. Not Ja’kir, not Aela, and definitely not Delphine.

“Esbern,” Delphine says at last. “What are you getting at?” Esbern glances up, and it finally seems to hit him that nobody except him has any idea what he’s talking about. He frowns.

“You mean… you don’t mean to say you haven’t heard of Alduin’s Wall?” Esbern asks, looking around. “Any of you?” Aela shrugs. Ja’kir is suddenly very interested in his boots. Delphine hesitates before saying anything, and even then…

“Let's pretend we haven't,” Delphine says quickly. “What's Alduin's Wall and what does it have to do with stopping the dragons?" Esbern grins.

“Well, everything!” Esbern says cheerfully. “Alduin's Wall was where the ancient Blades recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return. Part history, part prophecy. Its location has been lost for centuries, but I've found it again. Not lost, you see, just... forgotten. The Blades archives held so many secrets… I was only able to save a few scraps…” By the end, he doesn’t sound anywhere near as cheerful, and even Delphine, who normally is pretty good at schooling her features into an emotionless mask, looks noticeably sad. Ja’kir has a bad feeling that they’re remembering the rest of the Blades, everyone else who didn’t get out or fell to the Thalmor.

Meanwhile, both Aela and Ja’kir are left standing there rather awkwardly, and while Ja’kir’s kind of used to not knowing what’s going on, usually Aela does.

“So…” Aela begins after a moment. Delphine nods gratefully.

“So you think that Alduin's Wall will tell us how to defeat Alduin?” Delphine asks, looking to Esbern. The old man nods.

“Well, yes, but... there's no guarantee, of course.” Esbern adds that last bit almost hesitantly, but that doesn’t stop Delphine. Ja’kir can see the determination in her eyes even before she turns to him.

“Sky Haven Temple it is, then,” Delphine says firmly. After a moment, with a bit more warmth in her voice, she adds, “I knew you’d have something for us, Esbern.”

Ja’kir suspects that she didn’t actually know anything, but he doesn’t say so. He suspects Delphine’s insistence on him going after Esbern before the Thalmor found him was partially out of a desire to screw over the Thalmor and partially out of something going on between the two ex-Blades that he can only guess at. However, voicing his thoughts would be a really, really good way to get skewered, so he doesn’t.

“I know the area of the Reach that Esbern’s fabled temple is in,” Delphine says. “If this map is at all accurate, it should be near what’s now known as Karthspire, in the Karth River canyon. We can meet there or travel together. Your call, I’m fine with either.”

“A larger group will be more likely to attract the Thalmor’s attention,” Esbern warns. Delphine nods, and while he makes a valid point, Aela looks like she’s ready to disagree.

“If we stay off the roads, we won’t run into any Thalmor patrols,” Aela says. “The only presence they have in the Reach is Markarth, an… old friend of mine who recently had a job there said as much.” Ja’kir can tell instantly that the ‘old friend’ she’s referring to is none other than Skjor, although he couldn’t say how. Maybe it’s the tightness in her voice, or the pain in her eyes. Either way, guilt once again threatens to overwhelm Ja’kir, but he can’t let it. Not now, not while everyone still needs a Dragonborn.

“True, and the Reach is wild country these days,” says Delphine. “The Forsworn are everywhere, and they’re easily just as dangerous as the Thalmor. More, if we’re in small groups. So I guess, in the end it’s down to who we have a better chance of surviving, the Thalmor or the Forsworn.”

“The Thalmor will be actively looking for us, too,” Ja’kir says. His throat feels dry, and parched, but that’s just because of the guilt from… well, a lot of things, building up. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. He’s not sure how he could handle it otherwise. “At least, they’ll be looking for Ja’kir after the stunt this one pulled at the Thalmor Embassy, and the two of you are Blades. If they run into a smaller group…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. The brutality of the Thalmor is well-known, whether it’s with prisoners, soldiers, or unarmed citizens who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“If they run into a smaller group, we might be dead,” Delphine says quietly, voicing everyone’s thoughts that no one else dared to say. (If nothing else, Ja’kir does admire Delphine’s audacity.) “And if a smaller group stumbles into a Forsworn camp on accident, we’ll be even more dead. So I guess we’ll be traveling together?”

Ja’kir nods his assent, as does Aela. Esbern hesitates, but eventually follows suit. And so, the four soon leave the Sleeping Giant Inn for what may very well be the final time, at least for some of them. Two Blades (or ex-Blades, if you really want to be technical about it), two Companions. A Breton, a Khajiit, and a couple of Nords. A couple of melee fighters, a particularly sneaky archer, and a mage.

It’s an odd group, but fortunately for them, bands of mercenaries are almost always odd groups. And so, aside from skirmishes with bandits and Forsworn from time to time, things go remarkably well… right up until they get to the Karthspire, and all Oblivion breaks loose. (Metaphorically speaking. Ja’kir’s not sure he or anyone could handle another Oblivion Crisis.)

“Damn,” Delphine says, and whistles lowly. “That’s the biggest Forsworn camp I’ve seen in my life, and I’ve seen my fair share.” Aela looks at her strangely.

“You have?” Aela asks, quietly enough that Ja’kir can barely hear her. Then again, they are hiding just outside a really damn huge camp of Forsworn warriors. Ja’kir’s seen enough to know he wants no part in that, but it’s not like he has any choice in the matter. He’d much prefer sneaking past all the Forsworn, but needless to say… that’s not happening.

“Back in the day, I was usually on intelligence,” Delphine says. “That included, unfortunately, keeping tabs on the Forsworn and letting the people in charge know if they were getting big enough to be a problem. The largest one I’d ever seen was half the size of this.”

“Ja’kir can distract them,” Ja’kir says, with a distinctly wolfish look in his eyes. Much to his disappointment, Aela shakes her head.

“Not twice within a day, kid,” Aela says, with a nod to Delphine. While she doesn’t say much, her intent is quite clear: do you really want her to know about the beast blood? Ja’kir has a bad feeling that Delphine wouldn’t react as well as Esbern did. “If worst comes to worst, I can handle it.” Delphine, predictably, looks confused.

(Ja’kir wonders if she’d be drawing her sword on them right now if she knew. He’d like to think she wouldn’t, but on the other hand… he doesn’t really know her, does she?)

“What are you talking about,” says Delphine wearily. Aela shrugs.

“It’s a Companion thing,” Aela says, and… well, she’s not exactly lying, is she? “Don’t worry about it.” Fortunately, Delphine accepts it, and if she sees the funny look in Esbern’s eyes she doesn’t mention it.

“A distraction… is likely a good idea,” Delphine says after a moment. “Any ideas?”

“There’s this Shout that Ja’kir has been working on,” Ja’kir offers. “It… keeps this one from any harm for a short period of time. Ja’kir could use it, get their attention, and then run and lure them into a trap.”

“That might work,” Delphine says. “Any other ideas?” Before anyone can suggest anything else, an unmistakable roar comes from above, and Ja’kir freezes.

“Well,” Ja’kir whispers, “that’s certainly a distraction.”

One extremely chaotic battle later - which mostly involves the foursome skirting around the edges of the battle and letting the dragon and the Forsworn fight each other, and later, when the last of the Forsworn fall, stepping up and fighting the dragon - and several mildly infuriating puzzles later, they’ve finally found it. Sky Haven Temple.

It’s a lot darker than Ja’kir was expecting, Ja’kir thinks to himself as he takes the lead, holding a torch with one hand and trying not to wince at the pain in his other. Maybe slashing his hand open wasn’t the greatest idea he’s ever had… but then again, he’s had worse ones.

Then there’s the issue of what to do with the dragon. As Ja’kir suspected, the beast blood is still blocking any communication between him and the fallen dragon, although he suspects Sahloknir is long gone, his soul used to power the first word of the Become Ethereal Shout - Feim. However, there’s still at least one dragon inside Ja’kir’s head, and even if Ja’kir can’t communicate directly with him, he knows almost instinctively the dragon’s name.

Strunkahsul.

If nothing else, he figures he might as well honor the fallen dragons’ memories by remembering them. First was Mirmulnir, at the Western Watchtower. Then came Sahloknir, at the dragon burial mound behind Kynesgrove. And now… Strunkahsul, at a remote area of the Reach known to some as Karthspire.

This time, he watched what happened when he took the dragon’s soul, and he can’t help but wonder if that will happen to him, too, when he inevitably falls in battle.

(But then who will take his soul?)

Notes:

So I spent a little too much time making up dragon names and wanted to use them in my fic, sue me.

Chapter 21: Changing Fate (Or Not)

If Ja’kir had gone straight back to High Hrothgar, like he probably should have, he and Aela wouldn’t be in this situation. After all, Ja’kir has at least some idea of what he needs to do to defeat Alduin and save the world now. He needs a Shout, presumably a fairly specific Shout, and for that, he probably needs to ask the Greybeards. He doesn’t mind asking the Greybeards, but clearly Delphine had.

"If they had their way, you'd do nothing but sit up on their mountain with them and talk to the sky, or whatever it is they do,” Delphine says bitterly. “The Greybeards are so afraid of power that they won't use it. Think about it. Have they tried to stop the civil war, or done anything about Alduin? No. And they're afraid of you, of your power. Trust me, there's no need to be afraid. Think of Tiber Septim. Do you think he'd have founded the Empire if he'd listened to the Greybeards?"

If nothing else, Ja’kir did still need some time to think, about… lots of things. The literal end of the world apparently being imminent. Balancing being a werewolf and being the Dragonborn. The Silver Hand. What happens to dragons after he uses their souls for Shouts. What the Shout to defeat Alduin is. Lots of things. So, when Aela brought up taking a short detour to screw over the Silver Hand on the way back to High Hrothgar, Ja’kir quickly agreed. Skjor’s death was still fresh in his mind, after all. It was still fresh in everyone’s minds.

On the other hand, Ja’kir probably should have realized earlier that the Silver Hand, being werewolf hunters, would know exactly how to fight a werewolf. Aela’s own transformation hadn't gone well, and now the two of them were, unfortunately, cornered. Because in retrospect, running into a ruined fort turned bandit camp was definitely not a good idea.

Aela, still transformed, growls something that Ja’kir definitely can’t understand word for word, but he gets the gist of it from the glare she’s leveling at the group that has them cornered. He’s glaring at them, too. Sure, they’re people, but they’re people that would kill him and Aela without a second thought, as well as Farkas, Kodlak, Vilkas, and any other werewolves besides.

They killed Skjor.

With that in mind, Ja’kir Shouts, and leaps into the fray beside Aela.

“Well, that went well,” Aela remarks afterwards, after shifting back and… um… getting some clothes on. “You want me to come with you to High Hrothgar, or…?”

“Please,” Ja’kir says hollowly. Aela’s response is a silent nod, and Ja’kir’s immensely relieved by that.

(He knows why, too.)

After a moment, he glances up at the mountain. The top, so he’s heard, is always, always blocked from view by a dense cloud cover, but that’s the very top. While High Hrothgar is certainly high up on the slopes of the Throat of the World, it’s still nowhere near the peak.

He wonders, momentarily, what’s up there. Probably the Greybeards know, but he isn't visiting them to ask about that.

---

“Sky above, Voice within,” Arngeir greets as Ja’kir awkwardly walks up to him. (He knows Aela’s with him somewhere nearby, although her footsteps are silent.) “It’s good to see you again, Dragonborn.” Ja’kir grins, and nods. He’s always liked Arngeir, and that hasn’t changed.

“It’s good to see you too,” Ja’kir says. “But… Ja’kir would like to learn more about the Voice. If you’ll teach this one.” He figures it’s probably a good idea to start more vague, and maybe not ask about the Alduin-killing Shout just yet. Arngeir nods solemnly.

“You have learned so much already, Dragonborn,” Arngeir says slowly, almost cautiously. (Ja’kir’s not sure why, in truth.) Growing your gift too quickly would be dangerous. But there are many Words of Power in Skyrim, carved in the Dragon tongue. Even from here, we can feel the Thu’um resonate from them. Finding these lost Words would be a sufficient test, to temper your abilities with experience. Ask when you are ready to search.”

“Ja’kir is ready now,” Ja’kir replies. “And… this one wonders if he could find a Word of Power for a specific Shout?” Arngeir raises an eyebrow.

“That would not be easy, but I believe we could manage that,” Arngeir says. “You have a particular one in mind?” Ja’kir nods.

“This one… yes,” Ja’kir manages, still not sure how to say this. Arngeir doesn’t seem to notice his hesitation, or if he does, he mistakes it for something else entirely.

“Would it perhaps be the remaining words in the Shout we call Whirlwind Sprint?” Arngeir asks curiously. “Or, perhaps… a new Shout, the one you learned in Ustengrav?” Ja’kir shakes his head slowly, and finally decides, it can’t hurt to tell Arngeir exactly what he’s looking for. Delphine’s probably just being paranoid about this, anyway. She's paranoid about everything.

“Ja’kir needs to learn the Shout used to defeat Alduin,” Ja’kir says softly, and he can feel Arngeir’s gaze boring into him. He does his best not to flinch under it.

Slowly, quietly, Arngeir asks, “Where did you learn of that? Who have you been talking to?” Even though his voice is quiet, there’s a certain hardness to it that Ja’kir’s most certainly not used to from the kind old sage he knows Arngeir as.

“The Blades helped me find out about it,” Ja’kir says, and the hurt look on Arngeir’s face only confirms that there’s almost certainly some bad blood between the Blades and the Greybeards. Ja’kir can only guess at what went down, but something clearly did, and intentionally or no, Arngeir looks so sad, so disappointed, that it’s all Ja’kir can do not to burst out with an apology.

“The Blades! Of course,” Arngeir says bitterly. “They specialize in meddling in matters they barely understand. Their reckless arrogance knows no bounds. They have always sought to turn the Dragonborn from the path of wisdom. Have you learned nothing from us? Would you simply be a tool in the hands of the Blades, to be used for their own purposes?”

“No! Of course not,” Ja’kir says. “The Blades are helping this one. It’s… it’s not the other way around.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” Arngeir asks. Ja’kir slowly shakes his head.

“No,” Ja’kir says. “But it doesn’t matter. They want to defeat Alduin. Ja’kir wants to defeat Alduin. And even if they’re wrong… Ja’kir can’t just stand by and do nothing. Don’t you want the same?” Arngeir regards him cautiously for a long moment, and in that long moment Ja’kir can’t help but wonder what happened between the Greybeards and the Blades to cause so much bad blood between the two groups.

“What I want is irrelevant,” Arngeir says eventually. “This Shout was once used before, was it now? And yet, here we are again, seeking to defeat him. Have you considered that Alduin was not meant to be defeated?”

Ja’kir can’t answer that, nor does he want to. Arngeir waits for an answer, but does not receive one, and after a moment, he continues.

“Those who overthrew him in ancient times only postponed the day of reckoning. They did not stop it. If the world is meant to end, then let it end. Let it end and be reborn.”

“So… you won’t help this one?” Ja’kir asks sadly. Arngeir shakes his head.

“No. Not now. Not until you return to the path of wisdom.”

Ja’kir’s heart sinks, and his vision blurs, but he nods. If he has to learn more first, before he can fulfill his destiny and defeat Alduin… so be it. He doubts there’s anything he can do to change Arngeir’s mind, anyway.

“Wait just a minute,” Aela says suddenly, striding forward and meeting Arngeir’s (now distinctly disapproving) gaze. “So you’ll just let the world end? Sure, you might not have an opinion on that, but I do. The rest of us do. I live here, and I’d rather not die in the near future, thanks.”

“I never said I did not have an opinion,” Arngeir says. “I said that what I want does not matter. If this world is fated to be destroyed, if this world is doomed to destruction by Alduin, then who am I to fight fate? Who are any of us to fight what will happen, regardless of our desires?”

“Because,” Aela says firmly, “there’s some things in this world worth fighting for.”

“Perhaps,” Arngeir agrees. “However, my answer is still no. Leave this place, Dragonborn and companion. Return when you have reconsidered your course.” He nods toward the door, and that might have been the end of it if it hadn’t been for light footsteps coming from deeper within the monastery as Ja’kir silently turns to leave. Another of the Greybeards approaches, and Ja’kir can’t quite remember which one this is. (Borri? Wulfgar? Einarth?)

“Arngeir,” his fellow says firmly (the ground shakes quite a bit as he speaks), unlike when Arngeir does. “Rok los Dovahkiin, Strundu’ul. Rok ven tinvaak Paarthurnax.” Ja’kir doesn’t hear what he says, but right now, he doesn’t care. His vision is still quite blurry with tears, and blinking hard doesn’t seem to help much.

Coward, weak, not good enough, a voice chants in his head, and he’d think it was the last dragon he killed if not for the fact that his beast blood has been blocking that method of communication. As it is, he recognizes this voice. It’s Saevus, and right now, his words apply far too well.

Coward weak not good enough what are you good for anyway

“Let’s just go,” Ja’kir says quietly to Aela, without looking at her. He catches a reluctant nod out of the corner of his eye, and the two begin to walk out of High Hrothgar for what may well be the final time. Ja’kir can’t see himself returning.

“Dragonborn,” Arngeir says suddenly. Ja’kir doesn’t turn to look at him, either, and continues walking. “Dragonborn… wait.” Ja’kir stops, but doesn’t turn, doesn’t look.

“What do you want,” Ja’kir says flatly. “You already said this one has turned from the path of wisdom. Anything else you’d like to add?”

Weak good for nothing coward

“No. Forgive me. I… was intemperate. I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment. Master Einarth reminded me of my duty,” Arngeir says quietly, with a nod to the old man who’s presumably Einarth. “The decision whether or not to help you is not mine to make.”

“So, can you… teach this one this Shout?” Ja’kir asks, quietly, after a moment. He’s blinked back the worst of the tears by now, but he’s still visibly a wreck, he suspects. Arngeir meets his gaze, and slowly shakes his head.

“No,” Arngeir says, and Ja’kir’s heart sinks. He quickly adds, “I cannot teach it to you because I do not know it. It is called ‘Dragonrend’, but its Words of Power are unknown to us. We do not regret this loss. Dragonrend holds no place within the Way of the Voice.”

Ja’kir frowns. Whatever it is, it does not sound pleasant… but oh well.

“What’s so bad about Dragonrend?” Ja’kir asks, slowly, hesitantly.

“It was created by those who had lived under the unimaginable cruelty of Alduin’s Dragon Cult,” Arngeir says softly, and although that means nothing to Ja’kir, he feels rather than sees Aela visibly stiffen next to him. “Their whole lives were consumed with hatred for dragons, and they poured all their anger and hatred into this Shout. When you learn a Shout, you take it into your very being. In a sense, you become the Shout. In order to learn and use this Shout, you will be taking this evil into yourself.”

“That… does not sound good,” Ja’kir mumbles, and blinks hard. “But… well. If you don’t know Dragonrend, how can Ja’kir defeat Alduin?”

“Only Paarthurnax, the master of our order, can answer that question, if he so chooses.”

Right, there were five Greybeards. Ja’kir had only met four, so far… and he supposes it is probably about time he met the fifth one. (He can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t met this Paarthurnax, anyway… and his name sounds a little odd. Nothing he’s ever heard before, and definitely not a Nordic name.)

“Why hasn’t this one met Paarthurnax yet?” Ja’kir asks.

“He lives in seclusion on the very peak of the mountain. He speaks to us only rarely, and never to outsiders. Being allowed to see him is a great privilege,” Arngeir says, and nods to Aela. “She will have to remain here.”

Aela glares at Arngeir, but says nothing.

“Fine,” Ja’kir says after a moment. “How do I get to the top of the mountain to see him?”

“Only those whose Voice is strong can find the path. Come. We will teach you a Shout to open the way to Paarthurnax.” He looks to Aela again, and frowns. “You may go no further than the courtyard, but as long as you remain a friend to the Dragonborn, and as long as the Dragonborn remains true, you may remain here.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Aela remarks after a moment, “but I’ll accept it. If he falls off the mountain, though, we’ll have a problem.”

“If he falls off the mountain,” Arngeir counters, “he will simply Shout feim, and land perfectly harmlessly at the bottom. Now, Dragonborn. Come with me.”

---

One new Shout - LOK VAH KOOR - later, Ja’kir’s well on his way up the mountain. It’s not an easy hike, and he almost falls off a few times purely by accident, but, eventually, he makes it. He’s expecting… maybe a hut of sorts, or a tent. He’s not expecting a word wall, and he’s definitely not expecting the place to be deserted.

“Hello?” Ja’kir calls, looking around. There’s nothing there. Nothing, and Ja’kir’s almost ready to give up and go back when he hears the unmistakable wings of a dragon. It lands, and Ja’kir suddenly finds himself face to face - well, face to snout - with a pale-scaled, rather old-looking dragon regarding him quite curiously.

Ja’kir, to his credit, only falls down on his ass when the thing lands.

“Now? Ja’kir has to fight a dragon now???” Ja’kir exclaims, not sure whether to be annoyed or to be preparing for the upcoming fight. “You have got to be kidding this one.”

“Drem Yol Lok. Greetings, wundiniik. I can assure you, I am not here to fight you,” the dragon says with a hint of amusement in his eyes, and the relief Ja’kir feels at that is immense. “I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah… my mountain?”

“Um,” is all Ja’kir can get out, and if dragons can laugh, this particular dragon, Paarthurnax, is definitely laughing. At him. It's not a situation Ja'kir ever thought he'd find himself in, that's for sure.

But then again, he never thought that he'd suddenly become an ancient Nordic hero, not in a million years.

Chapter 22: Paarthurnax

Summary:

And so, Ja'kir finally meets our friendly neighborhood dragon, Paarthurnax! He's great, I love him. Of course, things are going to get very, very interesting when the Blades find out - because let's be honest, they're going to find out. It's only a matter of time.

Hover over Dovahzul for translations! (You're welcome~) Translations come from the Legacy Translator on Thuum.org. I know the Legacy Translator isn't necessarily the best, but it works well for my writing. It's like Google Translate but for Dovahzul, and I think we all know how much Google Translate is used when writing fanfiction...

“Now tell me, wunduniik,” Paarthurnax says after a few moments of Ja'kir staring at him with a bizaare mixture of shock and awe, “what brings you here? You are bold, to intrude upon a dovah’s strunmah without permission.”

“Ja’kir didn’t mean to intrude!” Ja’kir blurts out. “Ja’kir is looking for… you’re Paarthurnax? The master of the Greybeards?” Paarthurnax bobs his head.

“They see me as master. Wuth. Onik. Old and wise. It is true I am old… Tell me. Why do you come here, volaan? Why do you intrude on my meditation?”

“Ja’kir’s so sorry, this one didn’t mean to intrude and Ja’kir can leave now if you want, but…” Ja’kir takes a deep breath. “Ja’kir needs to learn the Dragonrend shout. Can you teach this one?”

“Drem. Patience. There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov.”

“Dov?” Ja’kir frowns. He knows he’s heard that word somewhere before…

“Dragonkind,” Paarthurnax smiles crookedly. “Or, in your case… it would be Dovahkiin, would it not?”

Dragonborn.

Ja’kir nods, but by then Paarthurnax has turned his attention elsewhere. Namely, at the word wall. Ja’kir hadn’t noticed this when he first arrived at the Throat of the World - granted, he was slightly more concerned with the dragon suddenly appearing out of nowhere at the time - but the word wall here… is blank. Despite this, Paarthurnax turns towards it, gingerly scooting over and moving his tail carefully so it doesn’t hit the mountainous rock behind him.

His movements almost remind him of Kodlak. Kodlak, who despite his best efforts to keep it hidden, is growing old, although Ja’kir has a sinking feeling it might be more than just that. Kodlak, who hasn’t picked up a warhammer in months if Vignar is to be believed. Kodlak, who… might be dying.

Ja’kir really, really hopes he’s wrong about that. He doesn't want to be right.

“By long tradition, the elder speaks first,” Paarthurnax continues, drawing Ja’kir out of his thoughts. He looks to Ja’kir. “Hear my Thu’um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin!” He returns his attention to the blank word wall, leans forward, and Shouts.

“ YOL TOOR SHUL!”

As the fire fades, Ja’kir looks again to the word wall, and gasps. It’s not blank, not anymore. There’s words on it, etched in the tongue of dragons… and Ja’kir can feel it tugging at him from where he stands.

“I have spoken,” Paarthurnax nods to the wall. “The Rotmulaag awaits.”

Ja’kir walks over, almost as if in a trance, and puts a single hand on the wall. Power surges through him, darkens his vision, but he understands. This word feels familiar, almost, and suddenly, it clicks.

Yol... toor.

He already knows yol , and he thinks he can figure out toor. Probably something else to do with fire. He takes a deep breath, and turns around. The old dragon, meanwhile, is smiling.

“A gift, Dovahkiin. Yol. Understand Fire as the dov do.”

Ja’kir nods, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Suddenly, it all makes sense, and not just yol and toor.

“Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as kaaz, but as dovah!”

Without warning, Ja’kir Shouts back at Paarthurnax.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

If Ja’kir thought just one word of this Shout was powerful to begin with, all three is vastly more so. The very air burns, and even so, it’s exhilarating, in a strange sort of way. Never mind that he’s sweating from the heat. Paarthurnax must be crazy, for wanting Ja’kir to Shout at him. Regardless, when Ja’kir’s able to look at him again, the old dragon looks absolutely delighted. For… some reason.

“Ah, yes! Sossedov los mul. The dragonblood runs strong in you, Dovahkiin. It is long since I have had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind.” Paarthurnax stretches, shakes his wings out, then returns his attention to Ja’kir. “So. You have made your way here, to me. No easy task for a joor… mortal. Even for one of Dovah Sos. Dragonblood. What would you ask of me?”

“Ja’kir needs to learn the Dragonrend Shout,” Ja’kir says firmly. “Can you teach this one?” Paarthurnax does not look surprised. He sighs.

“You would not come all this way for tinvaak with an old dovah. No. You seek your weapon against Alduin.”

“How did you know Ja’kir came for Dragonrend?” Ja’kir asks.

“Alduin komeyt tiid. What else would you seek? Alduin and Dovahkiin return together. But, I do not know the Thu’um you seek. Krosis. It cannot be known to me. Your kind - joore - mortals - created it as a weapon against the dov… the dragons. Our hadrimme, our minds cannot even… comprehend its concepts.”

“Then… Ja’kir came here for nothing?” Ja’kir says softly.

“No, you did not,” Paarthurnax shakes his head. “You have mastered a Thu'um, a Shout, and that is no easy feat, even for a Dovahkiin.”

“Right. And… Ja’kir did get to meet you,” Ja’kir smiles. “It’s… nice to meet you, by the way. But… if you don’t know Dragonrend… and the Greybeards don’t know Dragonrend… how can Ja’kir learn it?”

“It will not be vahk… easy, even for you. Krosis. But it will be quite possible, if you are rodraan, if you are ready.”

“Ja’kir’s ready, mostly,” Ja’kir says. “And if not, Ja’kir can become ready. What does this one need to do?”

“Drem. All in good time. First, a question for you. Why do you want to learn this Thu’um?”

“This one…” Ja’kir has to think on this. He wants to stop Alduin, he needs to stop Alduin, but… there’s more to it than just that, and Ja’kir knows this. “Ja’kir needs to stop Alduin, because Alduin wants to destroy the world. Ja’kir’s friends are in this world. So Ja’kir can’t let him destroy it.”

“Yes. Alduin… zeymah. The elder brother. Gifted, grasping and troublesome as is so often the case with firstborn. But why? Why must you stop Alduin? Why not another?”

“Because there is no other,” Ja’kir laughs humorlessly. “Or if there is, they aren’t helping. Ja’kir is on his own. And the prophecy says only the Dragonborn can stop him. Ja’kir is the only Dragonborn this one knows of.”

“True… But qostiid - prophecy - tells what may be, not what should be. Qostiid sahlo aak. Just because you can do a thing, does not always mean you should. Do you have no better reason acting than destiny? Are you nothing but a plaything of dez… of fate?”

“No,” Ja’kir shakes his head. “Ja’kir doesn’t believe in destiny. If this one did…”

Ja’kir blinks hard, and continues, “Ja’kir will stop Alduin, no matter what. No matter how. That’s what matters.”

“And so, perhaps, your destiny will be fulfilled. Who can say? Dez motmahus. Even to the dov, who ride the currents of Time, destiny is elusive. Alduin believes that he will prevail, with good reason. Rok mul. And he is no fool. Ni mey, rinik gut nol. Far from it. He began as the wisest and most far-seeing of us all.”

Ja’kir opens his mouth to speak, then closes it.

“But,” Paarthurnax continues, “you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. Krosis. Do you know why I live here, at the peak of the Monahven - what you name Throat of the World?”

“This one has no idea,” Ja’kir says thoughtfully. He frowns. “This one never thought about it, actually… mainly because Ja’kir just met you five minutes ago.”

“This is the most sacred mountain in Skyrim. Zok revak strunmah. The great mountain of the world. Here the ancient Tongues, the first mortal masters of the Voice, brought Alduin to battle and defeated him.”

“And… they used the Dragonrend Shout?”

“Yes and no,” Paarthurnax nods. “Viik nuz ni kron. Alduin was not truly defeated, either. If he was, you would not be here today, seeking to… defeat him. The Nords of those days used the Dragonrend Shout to cripple Alduin. But this was not enough. Ok mulaag unslaad. It was the Kel - the Elder Scroll. They used it to… cast him adrift on the currents of Time.”

“That sounds impressive,” Ja’kir frowns. “But Ja’kir doesn’t know what half of what you’re saying means and this one also has no idea what an Elder Scroll or a Kel is.”

“Krosis. Hmm. How to explain in your tongue? The dov have words for such things that joorre do not. It is an… artifact from outside time. It does not exist, but it has always existed. Rah wahlaan. They are… hmm… fragments of creation. The Kelle… Elder Scrolls, as you name them, they have often been used for prophecy. Yes, your prophecy comes from an Elder Scroll. But this is only a small part of their power. Zofaas suleyk.”

“So… the ancient Nords did something with an Elder Scroll, whatever that is,” he tries, “and it… sent Alduin forward in time?”

“Not intentionally. Some hoped he would be gone forever, forever lost. Meyye. I knew better. Tiid bo amativ. Time flows ever onward. One day he would surface. Which is why I have lived here. For thousands of mortal years I have waited. I knew where he would emerge but not when.”

Paarthurnax looks past Ja’kir then, and Ja’kir can’t help but wonder what he’s imagining. That’s not a question for now, though. Right now, he needs to know what this has to do with his apparent destiny. Which he's still not okay with, but he at least knows what's up now. That's something at least.

“Got it. How does any of this help this one, though…?”

“Tiid krent. Time was… shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to Alduin. If you brought that Kel, that Elder Scroll back here… to the Tiid-Ahraan, the Time-Wound… With the Elder Scroll that was used to break Time, you may be able to… cast yourself back. To the other end of the break. You could learn Dragonrend from those who created it.”

“That sounds… very needlessly complicated, but okay,” Ja’kir says.

Paarthurnax laughs, “Indeed it does, Dovahkiin. Indeed it does. Pogaan malur funt. However, there are none alive who know this Shout, and have been none for thousands of years. As far as I am aware, this is the only possible way. Nunon ven.”

“You… wouldn’t happen to have a conveniently hidden Elder Scroll somewhere up here, would you?”

“Krosis. No. Even if I did… Nid brah. And I know little of what has passed below in the long years I have lived here. You are likely better informed than I.”

“Esbern or Arngeir might know,” he says, then frowns. “Esbern’s more likely than Arngeir.”

“I know not who this vorey joor, this mortal you speak of is. However, I know little of the world daar sul. Trust your instincts, Dovahkiin. Your blood will show you the way.”

Esbern it is, then. Esbern was the one who told Ja’kir of the prophecy in the first place, so it’s far more likely he’ll know where to look for the Elder Scroll the prophecy came from. Arngeir’s nearly as isolated from the world as Paarthurnax is. Esbern is definitely the better choice.

Even so, doubt begins to creep in. However, for the first time since he can remember, Ja’kir ignores it. He says his goodbyes to Paarthurnax, heads back down to High Hrothgar, and leaves without speaking to Arngeir again.

“So, where are we going now?” Aela asks once they’re a fair distance away from the monastery. “And… did they have a good reason for not letting me see their master, too?” Ja’kir chooses not to answer the second question for now, because he’d really rather stay on the good side of the Greybeards. At least for now.

(That, and he’s not sure how Esbern and Delphine would react. He’s not telling them. Not yet. Not for a while. He's not telling Aela, either. Soon. But not now.)

“Back to Jorrvaskr,” Ja’kir says. “This one needs a break, and it’s on the way to Sky Haven Temple.” Aela grins.

“Back to the Blades?”

Ja’kir nods, and the two continue down the mountain in a surprisingly comfortable silence.

Chapter 23: The Joys of Being Illiterate

Summary:

Shorter chapter today, but that's mainly because 1) it's a fairly emotional chapter and 2) it's after midnight in my timezone and I need to sleep at some point tonight. Preferably sooner rather than later.

In other news, Ja'kir's illiteracy finally catches up to him. Also, Kodlak basically adopts your character when you join the Companions and you can't change my mind. This applies to Ja'kir as well. Kodlak's basically the team dad and I love him.

For Ja’kir, words can’t express how good it is to be back in Jorrvaskr, it’s been… way too long, and he’s honestly really glad to be back. The first time he returned to Jorrvaskr post-Dragonborn reveal, he’d mostly kept to himself, stayed quiet, made small talk when he had to and stayed quiet when he didn’t. This time, he didn’t, and Ja’kir was so, so worried that everyone would treat him differently after the whole Dragonborn thing… and they did, but… not in a bad way. Everyone wanted to know about the Greybeards, and what High Hrothgar was like, and what Shouting was like… and Ja’kir had no problem obliging. For once in his life.

For once in his life, he didn’t feel like a failure, and for once in his life, he let himself feel like he did deserve this, like he did deserve to be happy.

(He doesn’t, but… every now and then, it’s nice to pretend.)

Of course, that quickly fades once he’s alone with Kodlak.

“You’re leaving something out,” Kodlak says, looking Ja’kir in the eyes. Without letting his gaze leave Ja’kir’s, and without getting up from his chair, he pushes out the other and nods to it. “Sit.”

Ja’kir quickly does. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out.

“Ja’kir promised not to say anything,” Ja’kir says softly. While he’s thinking initially of the Blades, Paarthurnax is included in there too. After all… even if nobody would actually believe him about there being a dragon on top of the Throat of the World, the Greybeards trusted him to keep their secret. Arngeir trusted him to keep their secret.

Arngeir didn’t want to trust this one, Ja’kir remembers, and while he’s still not sure if he’s worthy of that trust… he’s damn well going to try.

“Very well,” Kodlak says after a moment. His gaze still doesn’t leave Ja’kir’s, and Ja’kir knows even before he opens his mouth that he knows something. He doesn’t know what he knows, but… it’s something, for sure. “Am I correct in assuming what’s left of the Blades are involved?”

Ja’kir tries to keep the shock off his features. He fails, and slumps in his chair, visibly deflated. He looks to the floor, and then back up to Kodlak before he speaks again.

“How did you know?”

“I’ll admit I didn’t know for sure, but… I had my suspicions. Someone broke into the Thalmor Embassy shortly after you departed. You and Aela departed separately, but returned together. And the Blades… were, at one time, bound to serve the Dragonborn.”

“They were?” Ja’kir interjects. He can vaguely remember Delphine mentioning something along those lines at some point… but that can’t be right, can it? Lately, he’s been running around doing things for the Blades more than anything else.

“Indeed,” Kodlak agrees. “I imagine that might have gotten particularly messy, if there were multiple Dragonborn individuals at once.”

“There’s not,” Ja’kir says automatically, then winces. “At least… Ja’kir thinks there aren’t any others. This one doesn’t know any others.”

“Just because you don’t know of something, or someone, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. There are many things in this world that remain unknown, and likely will stay that way for millennia, if not forever… but enough about that.”

Ja’kir looks to Kodlak curiously, but curiosity turns to dread as soon as he opens his mouth.

“So,” Kodlak continues, looking at Ja’kir with a strange emotion he can’t quite place, “you now have the curse, too. Don’t you?”

Ja’kir nods, and lowers his gaze. “This one… yes,” Ja’kir says softly. “Ja’kir does not regret the decision.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Kodlak says. “I only ask that you be careful, and remember this. Take an eye for an eye, and the whole world goes blind.”

Ja’kir’s not entirely sure what Kodlak means by that, but he thinks he knows (or at least suspects) about Aela’s one-woman crusade against the Silver Hand. He agreed to help her, and… he’s not going back on his word. Kodlak only asked that he remember that, not that he necessarily live by it… and the Silver Hand are basically bandits, anyway.

“Alright,” Ja’kir says, and ignores the pang of guilt that passes through him as he says the word. Kodlak smiles, pats him on the shoulder, and leans back.

“Regardless,” Kodlak says, “I’ve been looking into a cure. Purely for myself at the moment, although I suspect Farkas and Vilkas may be interested in the future. Take a look.” He nods to some papers on the table in front of him, and Ja’kir freezes.

Ja’kir can’t do this, Ja’kir realizes. Despite this, he reaches for the paper, takes it, and stares at it, not understanding, willing himself to understand, please please please-

He can’t. He can see lines of text, he can see words, he can see letters… he just can’t understand them. He just can’t, and the tears are rolling down his cheeks before he’s even realized they’re there.

“Ja’kir? Ja’kir!”

“Ja’kir is…” Ja’kir trails off, blinking hard. He couldn’t lie if he tried, he never could, and even when he needs to… the word fine just won’t come. Not this time.

There’s a hand on his, and Kodlak’s looking so, so concerned, and Ja’kir just- he just can’t. He can’t do this anymore.

“Ja’kir, deep breaths. Are you- well, you’re not alright, any fool can see that. What’s wrong?”

Ja’kir sets down the paper and wipes his eyes. It doesn’t do much of anything, his vision blurs with tears again within moments, but he can at least see Kodlak’s look for a moment before it all becomes a mess again. It only makes things worse. Ja’kir’s shoulders shake, and he sobs, and sobs, and sobs.

When he’s at least somewhat more aware of his surroundings, he’s dimly aware of the fact that Kodlak looks more concerned than ever, and… worried? Right, like he’d be worried about him. But Ja’kir entertains the thought, at least for a brief moment.

“Ja’kir. What’s… did I say something?”

“No,” Ja’kir whimpers, and wipes away his tears again. This time, it’s at least somewhat less pointless, as he can see… somewhat. “It’s… it’s just… Ja’kir… Ja’kir c-can’t…”

Kodlak looks from the paper to Ja’kir, and it’s clear from the sympathetic look in his eyes that he understands. Ja’kir didn’t have to say anything, which is good because he couldn’t get the words out, and bad because he didn’t want to get the words out, he didn’t want to bring this up, he just couldn’t-!

“Ja’kir hopes you don’t think any less of this one,” Ja’kir says softly. Kodlak instantly shakes his head, and Ja’kir dares, for a moment, to hope.

“Why would I- no, of course not!” Kodlak smiles reassuringly. “Lots of people can’t read, including some of us… although we’re working on that. Slowly, in some cases. Normally, I would offer to send you to Vilkas, since he’s been working with the others, but-”

“No. Not Vilkas. Please.”

“That’s what I feared,” Kodlak says. “I can talk to Aela, see if she’d be willing to work with you- and in all honesty, I’d be surprised if she wasn’t.”

“Okay,” Ja’kir whispers, and says nothing else for some time. Neither does Kodlak, and the two, Nord and Khajiit, Harbinger and Companion, sit there in silence for some time.

“By the way,” Kodlak says eventually, “I’ve been meaning to ask you this for some time, and in all honesty… I likely should have asked this much sooner. Would you be willing to take Skjor’s place in the Circle?”

“This one… yes.”

Chapter 24: Elder Knowledge

“An Elder Scroll? ” Delphine asks, incredulous. She shakes her head. “That’s not going to be easy to come by. Esbern’s your man for that kind of thing. He may be able to at least point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks anyway,” Ja’kir grins sheepishly. “Do you know where he’d be?”

“Probably outside,” Delphine offers. She looks like she wants to say something else, but evidently thinks better of it, and returns to practicing something with her sword. So, Ja’kir and Aela head out through the double doors to the courtyard, still looking for Esbern.

“I still can’t believe they asked you to find an Elder Scroll,” Aela says dryly.

“Technically, they didn’t,” Ja’kir shrugs. “Technically, their leader did.”

“Right, the old man living on the peak of the mountain for some reason with the weird name I couldn’t pronounce right if I tried.”

Ja’kir doesn’t bother to correct her. He nods, and looks around for Esbern. Incidentally, it’s Esbern who finds them first, and breaks into a huge grin.

“Ja’kir! Aela! It’s good to see you both,” Esbern says cheerfully. Ja’kir grins back, partially because Esbern’s grin is contagious, and partially because it’s good to see him too. He’s always liked Esbern, to be honest.

“Good to see you too,” Ja’kir says, “but… um. This one might need some help.”

“With what?” Esbern asks. Ja’kir visibly winces, and it’s then that Aela apparently decides she’s had enough of this and steps in.

“He needs to find an Elder Scroll,” Aela says. “For some reason.”

“It needs to be a specific one,” Ja’kir frowns. “It has to be the one that the ancient Nords used to send Alduin forward in time. Ja’kir needs to use it to go back and learn Dragonrend from them… somehow.”

“That sounds needlessly complicated,” Esbern says, then shrugs. “But what do I know? If you’re looking for an Elder Scroll, your best bet would be the College of Winterhold.”

Ja’kir freezes. Sure, Esbern’s right, magical institutions are usually the ones that keep records of things like these - and if he’s lucky, they might be hiding the actual Elder Scroll he needs in a broom closet somewhere or something - but he doesn’t like magic, and he doesn’t trust magic. He’s been to Winterhold a grand total of twice, both times on jobs, both times with other Companions. However, twice has been more than enough to see the sorry state of disrepair the College of Winterhold is actually in.

If they can’t even keep the building in good shape, Ja’kir wonders, how would they know where to find an Elder Scroll?

There’s also the small issue that magic, of all kinds, makes him exceedingly uncomfortable. Partially because he could never use it. Partially because Aless could, and might have become a powerful mage had she gotten the chance. She’d never gotten the chance. Partially because he just can’t figure out how people can just… summon fire from their hands, from thin air, and not be unnerved by it.

(Sure, the Fire Breath Shout is also technically summoning fire from thin air, but that’s different. Shouts are different, at least to Ja’kir. And that’s a good difference.)

---

 

Getting to Winterhold is relatively easy, Ja’kir and Aela just take the carriage from Whiterun. Getting into the College of Winterhold isn’t too terribly difficult once Ja’kir pulls the Dragonborn card - and while the gatekeeper had looked exceedingly skeptical, the look on her face when he Shouts all three words of the Fire Breath Shout is priceless. While he nearly gets roped into joining the College of Winterhold, Ja’kir quickly makes it quite clear that he’s only here tracking his Elder Scroll and once he’s done with that, he’ll be done with the College.

Part of his hostility might have something to do with the fact that they wouldn’t let Aela come in with him, which was complete and utter bullshit at its finest. Sure, she couldn’t use magic, but neither can Ja’kir! His Shouts shouldn’t count as magic, he knows he doesn’t count them as magic, and it’s when he’s trying to find the librarian/archivist/whatever in Oblivion he even is supposed to be that he makes up his mind to never return to the College of Winterhold, not if he can help it.

Maybe there’s a reason nobody likes mages, Ja’kir thinks bitterly as he pushes the door open to what looks like a library. There’s someone sitting at a desk, writing something down, and Ja’kir awkwardly clears his throat. The someone, maybe the librarian, doesn’t respond.

“Um… hello,” Ja’kir tries, and this time the librarian looks up. Whatever words Ja’kir had been planning to say next die in his throat, because his thoughts then quickly become something along the lines of thelibrarian’sanorcholyshit-

“Greetings,” the orc says with a wry smile. “You are now in the Arcaneum, of which I am in charge. Disrupt my Arcaneum, and I will have you torn apart by angry atronachs. Understand?”

“Yes,” Ja’kir nods quickly, and the orc’s demeanor becomes significantly less hostile. That’s probably a good thing. “This one’s name is Ja’kir.”

“Urag,” the librarian says. “Now, what in Oblivion are you doing in my Arcaneum? You clearly aren’t a mage.”

And this one wouldn’t want to be, Ja’kir thinks to himself, but until he’s well away from the College of Winterhold, he’s going to keep his opinions on mages and magic in general to himself.

“Ja’kir isn’t a mage,” Ja’kir confirms. “Ja’kir is the Dragonborn, and this one is looking for an Elder Scroll to save the world.”

“Malacath’s woolly gonads,” Urag swears a little too loudly. “I heard the Dragonborn was a Khajiit, but for you to come here? It’s an honor. Truly. What can I do for you?”

Ja’kir forces a smile, and says, “Do you know where this one can find an Elder Scroll or not?”

“Well… not exactly,” Urag says. He pushes out his chair, stands, and stretches. “I need more exercise… but in any case. I’ll bring you what we have on the Elder Scrolls, and we can work from there.”

Ja’kir realizes far too late, once Urag’s already set the books down in front of him and returned to his seat behind the counter, that they’re books. Meaning reading is required. Despite Kodlak and Aela’s best efforts, he still can’t decipher much.

“Would it… be possible for this one to borrow these?” Ja’kir asks. His heart sinks when Urag shakes his head.

“Not a chance. If you’re willing to wait a bit, I can copy them down for you, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go, even for a hero out of legend. I’ve yet to come across another copy of Effects of the Elder Scrolls, and I know there’s only one copy of Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls. That, however, is probably for the best.”

Fortunately for Ja’kir, Urag is quite talkative, and he soon learns without reading the books that one of them was written by someone named Septimus Signus, who took off to the icefields north of Winterhold years back and hasn’t returned or even been seen since. Despite this, Urag doesn’t seem to think he died, so that’s… something, at least.

---

 

“Trust me, kid, you don’t want to be reading this,” Aela mutters dryly. She hands the transcription of Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls back to Ja’kir, who slips it back into his pack. “Whoever wrote that-”

“Someone named Septimus Signus,” Ja’kir supplies helpfully.

“Yeah. Him. He’s completely lost it, but he also might be our best lead where an Elder Scroll is concerned, assuming he’s still alive.”

Finding Septimus Signus proves to be the hardest task yet, although searching in the middle of the night likely doesn’t help.

Notes:

"Malacath's woolly gonads" is my new favorite curse and will definitely get reused in the future. Why? Because it's hilarious, that's why.

Chapter 25: TEMPORARY Hiatus!

Yeah, I know, this is really the worst thing to log onto when you see an update notification, but the thing is - I do much, much better at writing when I'm focusing on one thing at a time. I made the mistake of trying to work on four Skyrim fics at once, and hooooooo boy, my free time was suddenly nonexistent. Well, I've finished one fic, am about to post the final chapter of another tonight, and then we've got this one and another one, Ziist Grozein. Juggling both of these really hasn't been working for me, mainly because I've been updating the other one on Saturday and this one on Sunday, and while I often have chapters written far in advance for Ziist Grozein, I've been writing chapters for this story Sunday night right before I post them for... some time. The quality of this story suffers as a result, and that's why I'm going on hiatus for the moment.

Once I've completed Ziist Grozein, I will return to this story and either finish it or rewrite it entirely, one of the two. If I wind up entirely rewriting Ja'kir's story, then I'll leave this up and post a link to the new version here. If I finish this version instead, I'll delete this notice once I've got the next chapter written and ready to go. Which... well, I wish I had a timeframe for when I'll be returning to Ja'kir's story, but I don't. All I can say at this point is that I will be returning to his story at some point in the hopefully-near future.

Thank you all for understanding, and I'll see y'all when the hiatus is over. For now, I've got some work to do, and working on only one story at a time will allow me to complete said one story much faster, and then I'll be back to this.

Seeya!

-Soul

Notes:

I do have a Tumblr! It's Crazy Fic Lady, so hit me up if you want. I might post extra stuff there.