Chapter Text
“I just - don’t want to hurt you.”
The man named Vilkas snickered. “This business runs on hurting people. Don’t worry. Now. Get a few swings in, I’d like to test your arm.”
Lorika’s upper lip curled - she was making such a fool of herself already, and in front of her father no less. Her one eye squinted as she tried to measure the distance between Vilkas and herself. Her neck was already sore and the muscles beneath the sewn-shut socket twitched with stress. The powdery soil around their training area swirled in the air as Vilkas paced. He at least was giving her the time to adjust and think about her approach — but she felt the eyes of the gathered warriors burning into her already. A huff of air escaped her flared nostrils. She was taking too long.
She'd protested that she wasn’t ready for weeks. Her father, however, insisted he’d seen her perform her daily activities well enough — and arranged for her to be tested for the Companions of Jorrvaskr.
How could he claim she was ready? Was it not enough to put her against beasts in the mountains? Was it not enough to lose her eye? When would he let her be?
Now, she was here — and Lorika knew she'd make a fool of herself. Oh, she could try again if she failed her test today, but the mere thought of returning here like some sad dog with her father in tow made her gut wrench.
Her entire time at Jorrvaskr until now had proven to be grating. Upon meeting them all, they looked at her with skepticism, even the man before her now. Vilkas looked to be around Lorika’s age, if not a few years her senior. They’d talked only briefly, merely exchanging names before he asked what weapon she preferred. Then he thrust a wooden sword into her arms. It wasn’t the curtness of the interaction that bothered her — it was that look he gave her. Unimpressed. Annoyed. And then he went tired as the harbinger Kodlak directed them to the field, as if he’d been through this circus before and knew she was going to muck up. Whatever resolve she’d maintained up until that point was nearly shattered then.
The young woman looked up from the training grounds to her father with a wide-eyed stare, hoping inwardly it would steel her nerves to see him. Raelund sat on a chair under the awning, near to the edge of the stairs. He was leaning forward on one of his crutches, watching with anticipation.
She imagined a look of disappointment on his face. It wasn’t that hard to do. And then she turned away, letting out a deep breath, and fixed her gaze on Vilkas in front of her. He assured her he could take whatever she threw at him; in truth, she didn’t fear hitting too hard, but rather missing. Tumbling through the dirt, defeated before they even knew her strength.
You took an ice wraith, she told herself, he’s not even going to try and kill you. The creature that cost her eye, whipping her across the face with a razor-sharp tail. It was pure adrenaline that drove her sword arm to shatter the beast like glass. She prayed to Tsun that his strength could guide her like it did that day on the mountainside.
No more thoughts. Lorika rolled her shoulders and took a few steps toward Vilkas, sidestepping only to circle him. His eyes, grey like steel, watched her with a stern sharpness. She met his eyes for a moment before she inspected his poise. His stance was squared and he turned slowly to keep facing her onward, shield half-raised in anticipation. All she needed to do was strike his shield, and she knew this, but she wanted to push herself – maybe tap his leg, his arm, his side, get past his defenses. They wanted to measure her strength, but she needed to promise more than that.
A kick? No. That would expose her too much. It only sounds pretty in books, her father’s voice rang at the back of her head. A shield has to be used effectively — practiced as he was, she had the faster weapon here. Her father, in the limited ways he could practice with her, always snarled ‘use your hand, damn it’ during their sparring sessions.
She positioned her free arm by her side, and practiced a flourish with her sword arm. Her arm angled as she lunged, the strength of her forearm striking against the broad shield. Vilkas let out a small, suppressed noise of surprise before it turned into goading. “Come on, lass. I know you have more than that in you!”
Lorika took his words silently, only rolling her shoulders again. Her gaze flickered between him and his shadow as she maintained their distance from each other. Vilkas approached slowly and tentatively. The blood running through her felt hot and fast and her heartbeat was in her throat. It’d be worse to let him close the distance and overwhelm her when she still had trouble gauging it. And so, she pursued him again, delivering a hail of swift strikes against the shield. The clanging of wood on metal filled her ears. His stance faltered a shade as he took the full strength of her arm, but he kept moving, refusing to let her overwhelm him. The lass had the brawn of a Nord, but he was just as steadfast. Every attempt she made to feint, he blocked it, seeing the intentions plain in her expressions. Rattle him, just rattle him, that’s all I need . The woman’s swings were unrelenting but he was quicker, and now he could see her vision was her biggest struggle. Her strikes would land heartily in one swing and then too distant the next.
Use your arm. Lorika’s sword arm reeled back and angled for a sideways strike, and her other hand flexed in anticipation. Throw him off balance, just a bit, then reach out and yank the damned thing. He set his stance firmly, taking the hit in stride, and with that momentum he bashed her firmly with the sword. Unprepared, she tumbled, falling on her knees and dropping the wooden sword. Shit. Vilkas smirked, and her face reddened. With a frustrated snarl she picked up her sword and got back to her feet, tasting the dust that kicked up as it got into her mouth.
The soft sound of muffled laughter itched her ears, and she looked to Jorrvaskr’s outside seating area. A small handful of the other warriors were grinning as they watched, and her face grew hotter. Then she turned to face Vilkas, her chest heaving with her breath, and she stanced herself again — a movement he matched in almost perfect sync. The weight of her body propelled her forth, and she retracted her arm, ready to swing with ferocity.
He didn’t move at first. She painted the move in her mind already — hard strike, grab the shield — but then, he stepped to the side, and she swung into thin air, stumbled, and fell shoulder-first into the dirt, breathless.
Lorika groaned out toward the sky, dirt smearing her face and clinging to her hair. No, she seethed. She was too reckless. A grunt escaped her lips as she picked herself from the ground, rolling her shoulder and feeling its soreness. To her utter anger, she saw Vilkas snickering - and her father, watching, brows furrowed. A surge of heat rose in her cheeks - and in what felt like the blink of an eye, she picked the wooden sword up again, the dirt swirling in the air as she charged Vilkas again. He reacted in time, raising his shield just in time for the brute force of her shoulder crashed into him. She felt his weight shift behind the shield, and as he faltered, she raised her sword and gave the iron surface a brutal sideways strike. There was a clanging and the sound of cracking. He faltered just enough — his shield arm swung outwards at her force, and before he could correct himself, the broken stub of her broken training sword pointed against the padding of his tunic, right at his heart.
His eyes were wide as he looked at her, both of them panting. There were splintered pieces of wood scattered on the ground, dirt smeared on her face from mixing with her sweat. The woman’s face was red and she breathed heavily — and defiantly, she tossed the broken handle of the wooden sword to the side.
“Bring me another,” she said between breaths.
There was a twinkle in his eyes and an almost-smile. He removed his arm from the shield straps, nodding. “There you are,” he spoke, a hint of warm surprise in his accented voice. She looked at him with a frown etched in her face, only softening when what he said sunk in. Her palm wiped dirt from her face as he looked over the face of his shield, continuing. “You need work, but I think you’ll do fine here. But that’s not for me to decide. Now,” He walked up to her, holding up the shield and dumping it in her unexpecting arms. She almost fumbled it, but she brought it quickly to her chest to steady it and get a better hold. Her mouth opened, sour words forming at the tip of her tongue before he interrupted, saying, “I’m sure you’d understand if I asked you to run that to the forge — have old Gray-Mane polish it again. I’ll talk with the old man in the meantime.” He spoke with enough conviction to leave Lorika silent. Besides, now she had too much to ponder. With that, Vilkas dusted off his hands as he walked away, only giving the girl’s father a respectful nod before disappearing into Jorrvaskr.
Lorika’s mind cleared as soon as Vilkas was gone, and she became scathingly aware of the warriors still watching her. Her eye glazed over their mixed looks of approval and apprehension, and she met the eyes of her father.
He was a no-nonsense sort of man, hardly giving her a moment’s worth of praise before setting her on the next objective, always pushing her to do better. Surely, he had criticism. But this time, there were no calculated thoughts on his aged face. His eyes wrinkled with a smile from under his long beard.
Lorika lugged herself up the steps, smeared with dirt and still bearing the weight of Vilkas’s shield. “My girl,” Raelund spoke to her, and she could hear the grin in his voice, “let me see the shield.” Quietly, she presented it to him, and the older Nord man squinted, tracing some of the fresh scratches as they glinted in the daylight. “With a wooden sword. By Ysmir, you’ve grown so much. Wanted to make him swallow that smirk of his, eh?”
The young woman nodded, breathing out, “aye,” as Raelund offered the shield back to her. After taking its weight in her arms, she continued, saying, “I couldn’t take that.”
“Ah, well I hope you’ll have more chances to teach him right,” Raelund said, though to her own surprise, he sounded somewhat positive even despite her acceptance still hanging in the air. She dutifully stood next to her father as he used the table and his crutches to stand, wobbling on his metal leg before he steadied himself. “I need to catch Whitemane soon. I suppose you have something to do with the shield, and I’ll let you get to it.”
Lorika still clutched the shield wordlessly, blinking a few times before the words registered in her mind. “Oh. Aye, father. Let me give you a hug goodbye.” She set the shield on the table with a clunk before her father interrupted her.
“There’s no need lass, I’ll see ye here shortly,” the man grumbled, waving her off with a chuckle. “Now, off with ye. And clean up while you’re at it! All covered in sweat and grit you are,” The man turned to hobble off into Jorrvaskr. She watched him go until he was out of sight before she returned her gaze to the banded iron shield at the table. Light from the cracks in the awning shone on its dull surface, and revealed the brilliant gleaming marks where the wooden sword scabbed at its finish. Lorika took a moment to breathe that in - she wanted to remember how those marks looked long enough to draw its pattern when she got home.